


Grown to Be Eaten

by abstractconcept



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: A little angst, Age Difference, Avalanche, Avs, Coach/Player Relationship, Colorado Avalanche, Coming Out, Cross-Generation Relationship, Guilt, Hockey, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Praise Kink, Temper Tantrums, analingus/eating out, hockey rpf - Freeform, two stubborn guys learning to respect each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt Duchene pursues his coach with a single-mindedness Roy never expected. Patrick does his best to resist, but Matt isn’t going to make it easy for him. He knows what he wants, and what he wants is Patrick Roy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first half of the fic. I still have tweaking to do to the second half. 
> 
> Title from David Grayson’s, _Great Possessions_
> 
> Beta: adele_sparks, my bestie and cheerleader; I'm so lucky to have her around to foist hockey fic on!
> 
> This fic was originally going to be written for the Trope Bingo prompt, "Forbidden Fruit," (thus the fruit theme) but I managed a bingo with something else first and didn't need this.

 

 

 

Grown to be Eaten

_Don't pluck a green apple;_  
 _When it is ripe it will fall itself._  
 _**\- Russian Proverb**_

Patrick’s eyes follow the boy around the rink, all speed and spins and a strength he wouldn’t expect, not from the size of him. He’s grandstanding a little, Patrick knows he is, making the flashy, dangerous plays, daring Patrick to try to rein him in, like his last coach. Patrick wouldn’t dream of it.

Patrick tries to watch each of them in turn, to get an idea about each of his new players. Landeskog, the big, Swedish captain, is pretty good. He has a physical style of play that the team will need. Downie might be trouble, Patrick can see that already. He’s not just gritty, he’s abrasive. He and Landeskog don’t get on. Johnson seems nervous, but Patrick can tell there’s talent there, if he’s allowed a little more time to get comfortable. And MacKinnon he’s already familiar with from juniors. He’s amazing already, and with a little help, he’s going to be one of the greats. But MacKinnon is like a puppy right now, still a little ungainly and unpolished, particularly defensively. Still, Patrick is confident he'll learn as fast as he skates. But no matter how Patrick tries to concentrate on the other players, it’s Duchene who keeps drawing his gaze.

He’s only a few years older than MacKinnon, but he’s already something of a star. His speed is just breathtaking, and no matter how many times Patrick turns away, when Duchene turns it on, jets down the ice, he finds himself watching, unable to focus on anyone else.

He watches Matty circle the rink, forward, back, moving the puck with languid fluidity, keeping it just out of reach of the defender, then dashing in down low and slipping it up and over Varly’s shoulder.

He’s good. Hell, he’s great.

Patrick can see the kid watching him from the corner of his eye, sizing him up, trying to judge what the new coach wants. The nerves are there, sure, but not too bad. He’s a pro already. The nerves just make him work that much harder, and Patty likes that, likes that a lot.

He knows a lot about Matty Duchene already; how Matt bled burgundy and blue right from childhood, how he struggled with injuries his third year, how he had settled for a low contract afterward just to stay with the Avs, to prove himself, and how, in the lockout-shortened season, he’d played in Sweden, and castigated his fellow teammates when they didn’t work hard enough. That’s who he is. He is hungry. He is talented. And now, looking at Roy, he seems a little eager, a little awed, to have a chance to work with one of the guys he’d looked up to for so long.

That didn’t mean he just stood there, gaping and grinning. No, this kid was not the kind. That meant he worked his tail off, gunning through the neutral zone, holding off everyone else with one hand, zipping and battling and putting the puck in the net with absolute precision. He’s a goddamn thoroughbred, a young stallion with a prance in its gait and fire in its eyes, high-stepping to entertain the onlookers. He’s showing off for Roy, and Roy loves every last second.

And every few plays, he risks a look over his shoulder at Patrick: Are you still watching me? Did you see that? Am I good enough for you?

When the kid takes a dicey shot from the point and still manages to beat Varly, five-hole, he tightens his fist just a fraction, just the merest hint of grim satisfaction, before rotating on the spot to meet Roy’s eyes, gauging his reaction.

The boy doesn’t say anything, he just waits, chin up, those hooded hazel eyes defying Roy to say he isn’t good, that Roy didn’t love every fucking move. Patrick notices he’s jiggling his stick, energy and nerves and anticipation all jumbled up together. Wondering if this coach could appreciate him, wondering if this coach would be like Sacco. Wondering if he would warm the bench, only out on the ice if he agreed to wear the leash. Wondering if Patrick could be what he needed.

Roy breaks out in a big grin. “That is pretty good,” he says.

Duchene looks wary, but flattered. “Yeah?” And Patrick hears the breathless hitch, the excitement. Or possibly he is just out of breath from the exertion of the play. Either way, Patrick slides around behind Matty and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says. He smiles at him again, gives him a full dose of the Patrick Roy charm and says, “There’s a few things we gonna work on, but I gotta say, I like what I see.” The boy flushes with pride, barely holding back a grin. If he had a tail, it would have betrayed him just then, but he does his best to look composed. Patrick pats Matty’s shoulder. “We are gonna have fun this season,” he tells him.

“Yeah?” Matt looks like he wants to believe that’s true.

“Oh, yes. I can promise you that.” He blows a piercing whistle and motions to the rest of the guys. “Come here!” he calls out. He gestures for everyone to join him at center ice. They all gather around him and he leads them in a cheer—everyone shouting ‘team!’ together. They end up laughing and jostling each other, a good atmosphere, Patrick thinks. A positive feeling was in the air. “Good practice!” he calls out. “Everybody get change!”

Matt is last off the ice, still standing beside him, smiling, watching everyone leave. He’s standing just a little too close, so that Patrick can feel the heat of his body. It’s distracting, and stirs something inside Patrick that he hasn’t felt in awhile. He tries hard to ignore it; Duchene may already be a dominant forward, but he’s much too young, an unripe fruit. Not that it matters—it isn’t as though Matt would be interested in a man anyway, let alone one old enough to be his father. When everyone is off the ice, Patrick looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Good job today. Keep it up.”

“Thanks, coach.”

“Patrick,” he corrects. “I am not your boss. I am your partner. I am here for you. We are in this together. Okay?”

Matt looks at him with shining eyes and flips him the briefest, but most adoring smile. “Patrick,” he amends gruffly. “Thanks . . . Patrick.” The words are laden with—something. Something beneath the surface. He looks pleased to be able to be on a first name basis, nodding a little like it feels right.

And with one last, lingering look that Patrick tries very hard to misinterpret, Matt Duchene heads for the locker. He sprints to the end of the ice, feet a blur, stops in a spray of snow for one last quick twist, one last turn to make sure Patrick had been watching. Then, with a saucy toss of the head, he’s gone.

It’s right from that moment that Patrick Roy knows two things for certain: number one, at some point, that boy is going to be trouble.

And number two: it’s going to be worth it.

 

 

oOoOoOo

_… you're like a lemon._  
 _When you are named,_  
 _the world's mouth waters_  
 _but I get all goosepimply._  
 _**The Fruit-Seller's Philosophy,** by Kajal Ahmad_

Matt doesn’t fall right away. Sure, he’s excited. Sure, he wants to please his coach. Does he _ever._ He’d looked at his coach and had seen Saint Patrick, the backbone of Denver Hockey’s Holy Trinity, and he was momentarily a born-again Avs fan, overawed by the presence of his hero. It had taken time for that hero-worship to bubble over into a full-blown, frothing infatuation.

For Matty, the pieces don’t start to click into place until that first game. They’d already won; the Ducks were far enough behind that there was no worry they’d catch up. And maybe there was a knee aimed at MacKinnon, or maybe it was an excuse. Patrick certainly uses it as more of a stepping off place, really, than anything else. He starts screaming at the opposing players, then at the bench, at Boudreau, warning him not to pull that shit, and when Boudreau talks back, that’s when Roy goes mad, starts slamming his hands on the glass and—

Matty is absolutely elated. He’s transported right back to that game when he was a kid, that game against the hated Red Wings, when he was a miserable seven year old watching his team lose, when Patrick came swaggering out of his net to fight, not for the game, which they wouldn’t win, but for his team, and for the honor of his fans. He could picture it vividly:

Patrick had skated out to center ice and gestured to Osgood: _You. Come here. Now._ Because Osgood could do nothing else as a man of honor, he came.

Matty remembers every moment, has it on tape, even, and has watched it many times. “ _And a right by Roy, he connected, another right by Roy, another right—an uppercut by Roy—a right by Roy! A right by Roy! An uppercut—he’s holding on—he’s going **crazy** against Osgood!_ ” the announcer had screamed joyfully as Matt jumped up and down on the couch, shouting encouragement Roy could not hear. When the two men were untangled and Roy was sent away, thrown out of the game, Matty had loved him fiercely. It was as if he’d turned right to Matty and said, “We went out fighting. Remember that, and hold your head high.” For years Matty never remembered the end score of that game, other than that the Avs lost. The only thing etched forever in his mind was a vision of Patrick Roy, leaving the ice, one hand still held high—in victory.

The Boudreau thing is just like that. That’s Patrick, rallying the troops. That’s Patrick Roy, starting a war. That’s Patrick screaming at the team and the crowd, _We are the Avalanche, and don’t you fucking think you can push us around._ He whips them all up into a frenzy, with his glass-beating shenanigans, has everyone on their feet, just like he wanted.

And, too, the message to the guys is clear. _Not my team,_ he’s saying. _Don’t you dare; you go after one of my guys, and I’ll go after you. No one hurts my guys._ Just like back in the day. Just like those beautiful, bloody nights in Joe Louis, when Roy would watch the carnage, dump his gloves and rush out to protect his team. He has their backs.

And now he has Matt’s back, and that feels amazing. You feel like you could do anything, with someone like that backing you up. It’s unreal, how good it all feels. Matt is there on the ice, where he’d always dreamed of being, the star player on his favorite team, with Patrick Roy at his back.

Matty can barely hold back the giddy laughter, watching him hulk out. He’s not like the others, some stiff old coach, some fat man who would get red faced as he waddled around and screamed at you what to do. This is Patrick Fucking Roy, the one and only, and he is _one of them._ And Matty is so proud and so elated and so ready to burst with joy that he grins every time he looks at the man. Patrick proves he still has it, his jacket rumpled, his face furious, those intense blue eyes glaring.

And they leave the ice believers, born-again, every last player. They look at him and don’t see the few wrinkles or the couple of inches around his belly or the grey in his hair. They see the fire that had been banked, but had never died. They see he still has it. They see a champion who can make champions. They see a man who burns with the love of the game.

Afterward, as they all troop into the locker room together, Matty makes sure to wait, to walk out with him, just so he can soak up a little of that glow. Maybe it will rub off, whatever makes him so fantastic.

Matty is still laughing; none of the other guys find it as funny as he does. He’s pretty sure now that the whole thing was calculated—not planned out in detail or anything, but intentional. He’s in awe of the man, really in awe, how he can sway everyone’s emotions like that. It’s clever and kind of hilarious, too. He feels like somehow he’s the only one in on the joke. Then Patrick slings an arm around him, gives him a really cocky, juiced-up smile, and winks at him.

It’s easy to forget he ever retired, that he’s not a contemporary. Matt doesn’t see a has-been. He sees a still-is. He sees a hero.

He sees Patrick Roy, the legend, and legends never die.

And Matt discovers something else, too.

Legends get him hard as a rock.

Legends make him flush and giggle like an idiot and leave him feeling a wild exhilaration. He feels like he’s finally starting to understand what the winners feel like, what it’s like to be around confidence, and he _likes_ it. He eats it up. He loves the swagger and the spectacle. And he is really gonna have to be careful in the locker rooms whenever Patrick Roy is being particularly legendary, or questions—among other things—would arise.

And he knows that this is going to be a hell of a season.

 

 

oOoOoOo

_There is greater relish for the earliest fruit of the season.  
 **\- Marcus Valerius Martialis, Roman poet (38-103 A.D.)**_

Patrick makes sure to set aside some time to review video and talk with Matt—Dutchy, as his characteristically unimaginative teammates call him—personally, because it’s a big deal, and he doesn’t want any distractions. Besides, there could be jealousy, and Patrick wants to avoid that if possible.

When Matt appears in the doorway, eyebrows raised, Patrick motions for him to come in.

Matt’s grin is playful. “It’s nice to get a chance to talk to you alone,” he says as he walks forward, and then, by God, that damn kid winks at him. Patrick has to bite his lips hard to keep from smiling. He shouldn’t be surprised; Matty Duchene is pretty fearless. Even the great Patrick Roy doesn’t intimidate him very much anymore. Patrick gives him a stern frown, a fierce look to mask his amusement, and the kid deflates. Good. Dutchy even takes off his Vail ball cap as though he’s trying to be more respectful.

Patrick clears his throat, hoping he can strike the right tone. He’d done his best to keep things light, make it all fun, all a game, but now it is time to be serious, and he wants Matt to understand that. “Hey,” Patrick says. “Sit down, Dutchy.” The boy obeys, giving Patrick a nervous smile. “I want to talk to you. You know Yzerman call me.”

“He did?” Matt blinks.

“To talk about you, yes. So I’m here to tell you now, if you are willing to work, you can make the Olympic team. Okay? Now I don’t want you to think this is going to be easy, but I think you can do it. Follow my advice, and you will go to Sochi.”

Matt’s face lights up. “I—wow—thank you. I’m willing to do whatever it takes.” He’s making an effort, Patrick can tell. He’s sitting up straight and tall, the only evidence of his extreme excitement the hat in his lap; he keeps twisting it up in his hands. Patrick knows he’d be squirming all over the place like an excited puppy if he wasn’t dying to show Patrick how mature and responsible and ready for this he really was. Usually his maturity is not really in question, but the idea of being on team Canada could turn any man into an ebullient little boy.

Patrick smiles at him. “I think you could be a really big asset to them,” he says. “You belong on that team.” Dutchy flushes red with pleasure, his grin shy and full of flattered gratification. His self-control weakens; he shifts in his seat just a little, back and forth, back and forth. Patrick watches his body shift and squirm and tries not to picture it happening in a different context. He clears his throat and averts his eyes to the video.

“Thank you—Patrick. That—this really means a lot to me.” Matt looks down at his hat, still knotting and unknotting it between his hands. He takes a couple of deep breaths.

“We just need to put the work in, the effort. They are going to be watching, and it is up to you to prove you belong on that team. I’m gonna work with you, okay? If you’re good defensively, if you work on move the puck more, if you become a more complete player, then you will have a good chance. I think this will help our team, and not only will it be huge for Team Canada, but I think it will be a good thing for us, too. So I would like to help you set some goal, show you a couple of thing, help you get ready for this opportunity. Sound good?”

Dutchy’s eyes go wide. Patrick knows it’s a bit unusual, offering personal, one-on-one help, but he figures it will benefit the Avs too. “I—yes. I want to make the team more than anything. Wow. I would love it if you would take the time to help me out with this. I mean.” He swallows hard. Patrick wouldn’t have cared to make a wager, but he almost seems to blink back tears. It takes him a minute before he can speak. “It means a lot to me, and I really want to earn a place on Canada’s roster. It would be wonderful if you were willing to help me get there.” Now he is doing that thing again, looking up at Patrick with big, soft, worshipful eyes. Damn if he does not look just a little bit in love.

It sends Patrick’s blood singing in his veins and he forces himself to look down, to break that gaze. He focuses on Dutchy’s hands. He watches them twist in Duchene’s lap and swallows. Even his hands seem to evoke a strange tenderness. He wonders what it would be like to lick those fingertips—imagines Dutchy beneath him, squirming and moaning as he slides his tongue up his index finger.

Dutchy clears his throat and Patrick sits up straight, trying to clear his head. The kid offers him another soft smile. When Patrick doesn’t return his smile, he nervously reaches up to smooth his hair, then leans forward, palm out and—

Patrick jolts to his feet and quickly flips on the video. “Let’s go over some stuff,” he croaks. Dutchy nods, eyes wide with surprise. “You see your body position here?” He plays the video, showing him some of his defensive liabilities. He points out where he should be, what he should think about. The kid chews his lip a little. Patrick tries to make certain that he understands this is not like Sacco, it isn’t playing a purely defensive game. “You open up a lot of space out there—the other team focus on you. That is good. If you get in a tight spot, I want you to look for the pass. You trust your teammates, you improve your game.” Matt nods, and Patrick takes his seat again. “Your speed,” Roy continues, “it’s going to be an asset on the bigger-size rink. But I think we can make you more well-rounded, get you making some good passes, and you will be surprise how much of a difference it make.”

“Sounds great.”

Patrick grins and pats his knee. “I know how much you want it, and I want it for you,” he assures Matt, his voice coming out a little too husky. The way Matt arches his eyebrow makes Patrick take his hand away quickly. “I will do anything you need to help you—to get on the team.” That seems to be the right thing to say, because Matt relaxes a little and nods. This is a big thing, Roy knows, because trust is a key thing for this kid, and once that has been established things would move a lot faster.

“I’m ready.”

“All right,” Patrick says, standing. “Well. Why don’t we go do some drills, then?”

Matt gets to his feet as well, and then he unexpectedly throws his arms around Patrick’s shoulders, hugging him tight. “Thank you,” he huffs against Patrick’s shoulder.

Patrick chuckles, rubbing Dutchy’s back and trying to quash his misgivings, feeling the warmth of Duchene’s body, the beat of his heart, but Dutchy isn’t letting go; he clings tightly to Patrick, one second too long turning into two seconds too long turning into—

Finally he steps back, looking up at Patrick, searching his face for disapproval. Patrick knows he should say something, should cut that off at the knees, but Matt’s expression has a sort of vulnerability Patrick hasn’t seen there before, such hope, like he just put a shot on goal at the buzzer and is looking up to see the replay, aching to know if the goal is good. Patrick’s mouth moves to say no but somehow his hand comes up of its own volition as if to stroke Matt’s cheek in a voiceless sort of yes. Somehow he manages to stop himself at the last second.

There is a long, still moment where they just stare at each other, and then suddenly there is a knock on the door. Giguere is suited up to play and smiling. “You wanted me to practice with Dutchy a bit?”

Both Patrick and Matt flush and avert their eyes. Patrick quickly drops his hand and Matty takes a quick step away, putting a respectable distance between them.

“Yes, I ask that,” Patrick says.

Jiggy looks from one red face to the other and shrugs. “Well, meet you on the ice, then.”

“Thanks,” Matt calls after him. He risks a glance at Patrick, who is trying to get his composure back, smoothing his hair, pretending nothing is wrong. “Uh. Sorry about that,” Dutchy mutters. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking sort of miserable.

“I don’t mind,” Patrick blurts in response, before he can help himself. “Really—être tiguidou,” he mutters, retreating to the comfort of French.

Matty manages a crooked smile, but dammit, the bubbling tension is still there, just beneath the surface. Duchene looks up at Patrick with eyes still full of yearning and determination, almost like someone has stolen the puck from him and he damn well intends to get it back. Patrick’s breath comes out shaky. This kid is dangerous.

Patrick forces himself to look away.

“Well. See you on the ice,” Matt says, and then he is out the door, ready to take on a new challenge, ready to play his way onto the Olympic roster. That is the important thing, anyway, and it’s clear Matt Duchene knows that and will take it seriously.

Patrick takes just a moment to breathe out before following. He needs to remember in the future that Duchene is hungry, and his hunger for the game should not be diverted. He must keep his focus on hockey, and so should Patrick. All the same, when he looks at Patrick with that same hunger, it somehow seems to feed Patrick’s soul, and he’s not sure, not at all sure, that he can give that up completely.

 

 

oOoOoOo

_The flavors spilling over, dripping, running down my wrist. The potency and aroma, only one thing smells, and taste, like this.  
 **Passion Fruit,** by Styles Blackwell_

He knows it’s a bad idea, but he can’t seem to help himself. He knows he makes Patrick nervous, but to be honest, he kind of likes that. It makes him feel good—powerful—to reduce a guy like Roy to shuffled feet and averted eyes.

So yeah, sometimes he pushes, even though he knows he shouldn’t.

It’s a team dinner, and he purposefully takes the seat next to the coach, scoots his chair just a little too close as he’s sitting down. Patrick is trying hard to ignore him, trying to pretend everything is fine, and for some reason it strikes Matt as very funny. Tyson gives him a weird look and asks him what he’s laughing about, and he just shakes his head.

He knows he should cool it, so he does.

For awhile, anyway. He manages to make light conversation all the way through dinner, even though a couple of glasses of wine have him feeling a little loose, warm and impulsive.

They don’t talk shop too much, but once or twice it comes up. “I am very happy with how we are doing,” Patrick assures them.

“Yeah, if we could just quit giving up goals in the third, we’d be in good shape,” Gabe notes. He sounds just a little glum, and for some reason that makes Matt feel good. He’s glad Gabe is growing into his role as captain. It matters to him, and that’s great. They _should_ feel shitty when they lose—they should want it.

Patrick echoes his thoughts. “All you have to do is stay hungry,” the man tells them gently. “If you do not give up, if you fight, if you want it right to the end, you will be the winner, I promise.”

Matt sees nods around the table. They shouldn’t need telling, but they do. He reminds himself that they’re a young team, and not all of them are veterans like he is at twenty-two. And besides, he knows how it is when you get discouraged. It can be hard when you screw up; it messes with your head, with your confidence.

“We just need to play the full sixty,” Matt observes. “And really put our hearts into it.”

Everyone agrees with him. It’s such a turnaround. A couple of years ago, they didn’t have any heart at all, but Patrick’s brought it back.

“Just keep at it,” Patrick says. “Don’t be quitters. That is key. It does not matter if it takes all night. It does not matter if you are behind. You just got to play to the end, and you can steal it. Just stay hungry, that is all.” He gives Matt a wink, which sets him shifting in his chair, suddenly turned on. Somehow the man has turned the table on him, with his charm and his gruff, growly accent. “Right, Dutchy?”

Matt chuckles. “Yeah.” Matt knows he’s right. They’ve been told before, of course, many times, but it’s different hearing it from him. They drop the shop talk and go back to dinner, kidding each other and having a good time. Patrick calls it building chemistry. Matty never really thought about it, but he guesses it’s true.

He notices Patrick watching him at one point, smiling at something he said. It’s a good look, a good smile. Best of all, it feels good to have it turned on him. Patrick has a way of looking at him like he’s something special, and he really likes that, can’t get enough of it.

He gives the man a sidelong glance and grins, and sure enough, the man reddens and looks away. How great is that? Every time he does it, it’s like scoring a goal or something. That’s how it feels, anyway, like a little victory, like his heart does this squeeze of contentment. It’s a dumbass way to feel, he tells himself, because he’s not a kid, but he knows that’s kind of how he’s acting.

So what? It feels good and he’s not hurting anything, anyway.

“Want some dessert, hun?” the waitress asks, but Patrick holds his hands up.

“No, I think I pass,” he says, and Matt has to hide a smile behind his hand. Patrick has suddenly become very concerned about his weight, about how he looks. Matt dryly thinks that he can’t imagine why.

But the man does accept a flute of champagne and raises a toast to his team. “Why not us?” he says, that suggestion of Ray Bourque’s that has become this year’s motto.

Everyone echoes him and Matt clinks his glass against Patrick’s.

They all laugh, dropping back into their seats, chattering with excitement. The season feels different. Matt feels like the whole team changed with Patrick, like they’ve been infused with the man’s DNA, remaking themselves into something powerful and new.

“I’ll have the chocolate lava cake,” Matt tells the waitress when she returns. He shouldn’t, and he knows it, but he can’t help but feel like tonight is the right night to take a break, to give in and enjoy things.

He spends the next few minutes shooting Patrick clandestine looks, doofy smiles and even tries batting his eyelashes, just to revel in the response it draws. Patrick reddens again, shakes his head, but he can’t help it, he just can’t, he’s smiling the whole time. Matt can see the laughter in his eyes; Patrick likes this about him, too, that he’s ballsy, that he’s not afraid to put the moves on his coach even if he gets rejected.

Then the waitress comes and sets the plate in front of him with a click, and he turns to Patrick with a teasing smile. He takes a bite and licks his fork. It’s probably not actually all that sexy, like he pictured in his head, but he hears Patrick groan softly and feels triumphant. He pushes his plate along the table toward the man and, at the same time, wiggles a little closer, brushes his foot against Patrick’s.

“Come on,” he cajoles. “Just one bite.”

Patrick’s eyes soften. “Just one bite,” he agrees. He gives Matty a stern look. “But just one.”

“Sure,” Matt replies, hiding his own thoughts behind another smile.

All he has to do is stay hungry.

 

 

oOoOoOo

_Cherries of the night are riper_  
 _Than the cherries pluckt at noon_  
 _**Cherry Time,** by Robert Graves._

The doorbell rings and Patrick’s not even dressed. Well he is, but not for company; he’s just in yesterday's jeans and a grungy old Avs t-shirt. He’d fallen asleep on the couch while looking over some game plans, papers all over the coffee table, his television muted but still set to ESPN. His laptop is on the coffee table, but he prefers real paper, mostly. He answers the door, squinting in the morning sun. “What are you doing here?”

Dutchy is standing there holding a bottle and grinning that ridiculous grin he gets that makes him look about twelve years old. “Hey,” he says with a giddy laugh. He looks up at Patrick, and that damn look is back on his face again, that shining look of absolute devotion, and he says breathlessly, “I made the team.”

Patrick can’t help but smile. “Yeah, I hear that on the news.” They stand there, grinning at each other, then suddenly Dutchy just sort of launches himself at Patrick, kissing him hard.

Patrick has no choice but to stumble back, to let him in, partly because though Patrick is taller, the kid is a lot stronger, but also because they can’t do this right out on the doorstep. Hell, they shouldn’t be doing this anywhere. The corner of Dutchy’s upper lip still has stitches, an injury he got not long ago, but it doesn’t seem to bother him, and it doesn’t bother Patrick, either. In a funny way, Patrick actually likes it. He knows it must be tender, but Matt wants it anyway, wants it even if it hurts, and that sends Patrick’s blood surging, that he has the power to make someone want him that bad. He knows it’s wrong, but it’s starting to feel very right.

It takes a lot of willpower, but finally Patrick manages to push him away. “We should not,” he says.

Dutchy frowns, not an unhappy frown, but a sulky look designed to get what he wants. “But you want me.”

“I know it.” He can’t lie. He doesn’t know why.

“Good,” Dutchy whispers, and pulls Patrick down into another insistent kiss. Patrick’s body is beginning to respond, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. He tries pushing the boy away again, but Dutchy’s shoulders are rock hard, his arms solid steel. Patrick is struck by the sudden realization that he _can’t_ push him away—he is not even physically capable of untangling himself. For some reason that makes heat pool in his abdomen. He shouldn’t want this, and he doesn’t even know where it comes from. He’s never had the slightest interest in any of the kids he coached, never even noticed the other men when he played. He doesn’t like guys, he’s sure of it. But somehow, Matty is different. He’s special, and he knows it. Damn him, he knows it.

“But I’m your coach,” Patrick protests.

“Nuh-uh. My partner,” Dutchy murmurs against Patrick’s mouth. He looks up slyly; he likes twisting Patrick’s own words against him. Today Dutchy’s eyes are green. They are like that sometimes, changeable.

Patrick looks down into his eyes. “You don’t want this, trust me.”

Duchene’s smile flips up at the corner. “If you think I decided to do this on a whim, you don’t know me very well. I think things through. I think a lot—maybe too much.” His arms circle Patrick’s waist, still holding the large bottle of champagne in one hand, and he looks at the man boldly. “But when I make up my mind what I want, I go after it. Hard.” At that word, he bumps up against the man, pointedly, and Patrick has to chuckle. Matt is certainly not shy.

Matt leans up again, draws another kiss from the man.

Patrick allows this, but then turns his face away with a sigh. “You are just much too young for me,” he laments, his cheek pressed against Matt’s hair.

“Getting older every day, though,” Dutchy points out. He doesn’t seem the least bit discouraged. He doesn’t seem to understand that there is a world of difference between a coach in his forties and a player in his twenties.

“Not fast enough.”

Matt pulls back. One corner of his mouth curves up into a kissable little curl once more. “I’ll just have to go faster, then,” he growls. “I’m good at that.”

Patrick snorts. Yes, Matty is fast, in all ways. Yet however fast he is, he’ll never catch Patrick up. That just isn’t how it works. They’re at different stages of their lives. Patrick is established, settled, boring. Moreover, he isn’t sure he has the energy for a trophy boyfriend half his age. And Dutchy is on the brink of greatness, and he’s filled to the brim with ambition and drive.

Before Patrick can get too wrapped up in his brooding, Matt pushes past him. “Look, we need glasses. Where’s the kitchen? Off to the left?” Patrick follows him down the hall, laughing helplessly. This damn kid is so stubborn. Matty makes his way to the kitchen and, without asking Patrick, begins opening cupboards one after another like he owns the place, rummaging around shamelessly. If anyone else did it, Patrick would be annoyed. But Matt is making himself at home and somehow that feels mostly okay. Mostly.

“Look, Dutchy . . .”

“Okay, okay. Let’s do it this way,” Matt says as he takes a couple of glasses out. They’re not champagne glasses, they’re beer mugs, but Matt doesn’t seem to notice or care. “Can’t we just celebrate?” he asks, ignoring Patrick’s reluctance. “I mean . . . this is a big thing for me.”

“I know that but . . . champagne and it is not yet eleven-thirty in the morning?”

“Sure. You only live once,” Matt points out.

Surrendering, Patrick takes the bottle away from him and uses a hand towel to ease the cork out. “You sure you don’t want a real glass?” he asks as Matt holds out the beer mugs.

Duchene shrugs. “What, are you too la-dee-da for a good old beer mug?” he teases. He takes the bottle and grins at the way Patrick rolls his eyes, while he slops the champagne into the mugs.

They end up back on the couch, drinking Krug out of clunky glasses and sifting through game plans, chatting about the season. “Working hard, huh?” Matt asks, glancing through possible line ups.

“I was up late,” Patrick admits. He glares at his papers. “Thinking about how we can hold onto a lead in the third. And I would like to see less turnover, better puck possession, better defense. Also perhaps to visit the moon would be nice, if we are dreaming.” He heaves a sigh and Matty laughs.

“Poor Patrick,” he says, putting his hand on Patrick’s knee. “I have to admit, I wouldn’t want your job.”

“No sane man would,” Patrick agrees dryly. “But it is my problem. You just worry about yourself.”

Matty hums, in agreement or not, Patrick can’t tell. “At least that monkey’s finally off my back. That’s something, anyway. It’s so good to be scoring again. And it couldn’t come at a better time.” He sighs and falls back against the couch cushions, looking up at the ceiling like he’s praising God. It had been a hard slump for him, Patrick knew, and he encouraged him to focus on other areas, which had resulted in many assists and—hopefully—a feeling that he wasn’t too unsatisfied with his game even when he wasn’t scoring.

“Yes. I am proud of you.” Patrick is ashamed of the light in Matty’s eyes at that, but how nice and warm the gaze is.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Then the kid surprises him, casually pointing out that the neutral zone transition would work better with Barrie than it would with E.J. if they were in the right position for it. He talks about Barrie’s progress, and Patrick agrees with this, but tries to sound non-committal. They are swimming dangerously towards the undertow. He shouldn’t be so taken-aback; Duchene lives and breathes hockey, and has all his life. But his acumen is still astounding; he throws out the observation that he doesn’t think Tanguay will be back this year, and that is a thought Patrick has had as well, but hasn’t shared. He even asks if there are any plans to beef up the D as they head into a Cup run.

“No, I don’t think that would be good,” Patrick says, which is true. Right now they click, and they believe in themselves. It will be difficult if they lose Pauly for nothing in the offseason, but he’s one of the only veterans and the team is young, not just physically, but mentally, emotionally. A trade now would leave them shaken. “I think our chemistry is too good to risk a trade just now.”

Matty nods. “I like our chemistry too.” He gives Patrick a wink, and Patrick feels himself redden. He has to admit, it is nice to be on the receiving end of such dogged attention. Even if he is too old, it is nice to sit here, feeling young.

They talk for ages about the game, about adjustments and penalty killing and focus. “You know what the big difference is this year?” Matt asks, pouring himself a third mug of champagne.

“What is that?”

“The big difference is that we’re playing to win. We’re not playing not to lose. It’s like . . . it’s like playing on the other end of the ice. You know what I mean?” his words are a little slurred at this point. “You’ve really changed everyone’s perspective about what hockey can be. It can feel good. You can just take it and enjoy it and not worry about tomorrow. It doesn’t _have_ to be a grind. It doesn’t have to be a job, you know? It can be just like you dreamt when you were a kid. It can be that.” He gives Patrick a lazy, dreamy smile.

“Yes. It can be that,” Patrick replies agreeably. That, he will not argue. That is what he wanted to bring to the team, and it means a lot to him that they’re buying into it. He will never take that away. This will be his next legacy, and it’s what he wants them to remember most of all.

Matt leans over, rests against Patrick’s shoulder.

“You are all right?”

“Yeah. Just tired. I got up at. . . I don’t even know—early—to hear the announcement. But I couldn’t get the TSN feed to work. Shit, I was so keyed up I barely got any sleep last night. And then the feed thing and I was almost out of my mind, but then I got Chiarelli’s call.” He lets out a long, long breath, and it strikes Patrick that he’s not the only one who’s been under a lot of tension and pressure these days. He stares up at the ceiling. “I’m nervous. I don’t know what’s going to happen when we get there. I hope I can contribute something. There were a lot of good guys who didn’t make the team—really great players. I have to prove that they made the right choice, picking me.”

Patrick watches him worry. “You do good,” he soothes.

Matty manages a sardonic smile. “You think? I don’t know, I mean, I won’t have such a good coach over there.”

Patrick _hmphs_ at this. “Babcock? Oh, yeah, You are not in good hands at all. Might as well hire Sacco, right?”

“Don’t even _joke_.” Matt fakes a shudder. He leans into Patrick, shifting, worming his way closer. “Can I just ask you one question?” he says, several moments later. “You’re attracted to me. So is it just the age thing?”

Patrick struggles with his English. “No, not exactly. The . . . the experience. The perspective. The coach player dynamic. The idea that I could lose my job or worse yet, interfere with your career. And we are—at different places. I know things that you do not, that you will not know for a long time.”

Matt’s body is warm against him. He hums a little, nodding. “You know what it’s like to be a winner, and I don’t.”

“Uh, that is not—”

“No, I know, that’s not what you meant. And I do understand where you’re coming from. I really don’t mean to just bulldoze over your concerns and act like none of it matters, it’s just—the thing is, when you put all these what ifs up front, when you stack them up in front of you, you can’t see past it to the reality. You’re creating this false scenario of all these things that could go wrong, and it can be really paralyzing. Fear is an ugly lens that colors your view of the future.”

Patrick looks at him, speechless.

Matt smiles tiredly. “Sorry, I don’t mean to get philosophical. It’s just—that’s just the opposite of how I handle things. If you’re so worried about possible mistakes that you never try anything at all, you can’t win anything.” He looks away. “That was the big thing with me and Sacco. I _have_ to take risks. Sometimes I fuck up, it’s true, but I do better when I’m given the opportunity to fuck up and learn from it.” He laughs. “Sometimes I think I can’t learn any other way. I’m just . . . I hate having anyone pull the reins in on me. Especially because something bad _might_ happen. I can’t play it safe. I’m not that person.”

Patrick is so surprised by this that he can’t even formulate a response. He hadn’t even considered what Matt might be thinking. He’d assumed the kid was just horny and stupid, not thinking clearly at all, to go after him like this. But he’s clearly not stupid. He’s actually thought about it, and what he says is a lot to take in, even if Patrick doesn't entirely agree.

Matt grins a little at his expression. “Look, I can see it your way, too. I love what I do and I don’t want to fuck that up. At the same time, I’d be really pissed if someone thought they could take that away from me based on who I sleep with. I'm not a child, you're not taking advantage of me, and it's really none of their business, and—well, I dunno. I can’t help but feel like I’m going to have to face that eventually no matter what.”

“You would be better off to do that while seeing someone who is not your coach,” Patrick points out.

Matt’s grin widens. “I don’t know about that. I’d rather have that fight with you at my side than with anyone else.” He arches an eyebrow. “I know you’d have my back, and anyway, I’m sort of convinced that you work miracles.”

Patrick smiles ruefully. “If I could work miracle, I would still be playing and would have about fifty Stanley Cup rings.”

Matt shrugs. “Anyway, it’s not like I purposely decided I was going to fall for you. If it was as easy as hey, I’ll just date someone my own age, well, it would be as easy as hey, I won’t fall for a guy. I mean, either way, my life would be less complicated,” he reasons.

“I suppose this is true.”

Matt nuzzles his shoulder. “Anyway, it’s okay. It’s enough to be here, like this, right now.”

They’ve been sitting there so long that a patch of sunlight has worked its way across them, streaming through the front window, and Matt closes his eyes against it, like a cat might. Patrick takes the opportunity to look at him, greedily, to drink him in unobserved. He looks like a lot of hockey players, scarred up and imperfect, but there’s something just beautiful about him to Patrick. There’s something genuine about him that comes out in every gesture, something earnest in his eyes and smile. There is something more real about him than anyone else Patrick's ever met.

Patrick reaches out, traces his cheek, and Matt’s eyes flutter open. His smile is sweet, but impish, like he knows he’s gotten under Patrick’s skin again. Patrick indulges in his urge to pet Dutchy, stroking his warm face and feeling it grow warmer against his fingertips. He traces the raised scar on the curve of his chin, brushes the back of his hand up his cheek, savors in the softness of Matt’s lower lip against his thumb.

Matty sighs at this, presses a hot kiss to Patrick’s thumb, and something kindles deep in Patrick’s gut. He wants Matt, really wants him, in a way that makes him remember what it was like to chase the Cup. Matt nuzzles the palm of his hand, presses insistent kisses up and down, all the way to his wrist, and then the tip of his tongue quests out and trails along Patrick’s lifeline.

A hot burst of _want_ flares in Patrick’s chest, and it’s all he can do not to gasp. There is something indescribably intimate about Matt’s mouth, hot and wet against the sensitive crease of his hand. Patrick grows hard, achingly hard, and he thinks that he has never wanted anything this much. He wants it all the more because it is taboo, denied him. He has never been very good at taking no for an answer.

“Dutchy,” he says, and his voice sounds husky with yearning. Matt’s eyes flutter open. They’re glassy and dazed, and widen abruptly when Patrick takes his hand away.

“Pa—” but Patrick covers Matt’s mouth with his own before he can get the word out. The kisses are brief and slick and feverish as they keep shifting, tilting heads and bodies, searching for a way to get closer.

Patrick can feel his cock pressing against his pants, tenting them. He wonders how bad it would be if they just jerked each other off. Back in school, they would do that with each other sometimes, the boys, and then say it didn’t count. He knows it counts now, but he’s not sure he cares anymore.

Dutchy buries his hands in Patrick’s hair, keeping him close.

Patrick moves away from Matt’s mouth, kisses his cheek, and then his neck. He worries the soft spot beneath Dutchy’s earlobe, making him chuckle and squirm. He runs his palm over the strong back, the swell of his shoulders, letting his fingertips trail light kisses down strong arms. Dutchy, meanwhile, smiles smugly, eyes shut, enjoying it all as a cat would, being petted.

Patrick cards his fingers through Matt’s hair, drawing a sigh. He kisses him again, softly, then trails one fingertip down his chest. Duchene is laid out on the sofa like a banquet, head back, legs splayed, arms open. He is delicious this way, lolling on Patrick’s couch invitingly. Patrick wonders that he is so attracted to this—none of the softness nor svelteness he has craved before. Dutchy worked hard over the summer and he is every inch an athlete, in perfect condition from his well-built shoulders to his strong thighs and, Patrick knows, his tight, perfectly-formed ass. Patrick finds himself growing harder just thinking about it, and he blows out a long, shaky breath.

He strokes Matty’s cheek and tilts his chin up. If he is damned, he might as well make the most of it. He is going to kiss that boy like he’s never been kissed, and strip him to the bone, and _take him_. But just as he leans in to revel in the warm slickness of Dutchy’s mouth, the boy lets out a snore.

Patrick rears back, blinking. “Are you—” But Matt doesn’t answer. His chest rises and falls, his feathery lashes soft against his cheeks, his mouth still slightly parted in a deceptive parody of the anticipation of a kiss. Patrick sits back on his heels and watches Matt doze in the sunshine, insensible. Well, he has had a roller coaster the past few days, it is no wonder, really, that with the drama of the Olympic roster finally resolved, he reached the point of exhaustion. He's still alluring, even unconscious.

After a moment, Patrick reaches out and runs a languid hand up Dutchy’s inner thigh. He gives the boy’s face a furtive glance, but Dutchy’s expression doesn’t change. Feeling guilty and aroused, Patrick unbuttons his own fly.

He tells himself it's not so bad if he's not actually touching the kid, so he just sits beside him on the sofa, eyes intent on Duchene's slack jaw and open mouth. He can picture that mouth on his cock, wet and hot. He strokes himself, images of Duchene skittering through his head: squirming, smirking, looking up at Patrick with wide hazel eyes full of adoration and lust. He could almost see Dutchy on his knees, looking up at him in that way he had, mouth open, face darkly pink, eyebrows knotted, one vein throbbing in his neck as he stroked his own prick —

With one last tug, Patrick spattered come over his belly, some of it spurting onto Matt's dress pants. Flushed and furious with himself, he gets up quickly, hurries to the bathroom and clean himself up, swearing in French under his breath. He returns with a damp cloth and carefully tries to wipe away the evidence of his indiscretion. Matt makes a soft noise and shifts a little, but doesn't wake.

Finally Patrick falls back against the couch cushions with a groan. What the fuck was wrong with him? After several minutes blur by, Patrick makes himself get up. Even though it is warm, he tracks down a spare blanket and tosses it over Duchene, obscuring his lithe form. With a sigh of relief, Patrick totters out of the room to take a shower and try to pull himself together.

Jesus Christ, he has to find some sort of self-control around this kid.

 

 

oOoOoOo

_but the cold leaves unplaited themselves_  
 _and slid apart, and again unplaited themselves_  
 _until I gave up and ate wild strawberries_  
 _out of your hands for sweetness._  
 _**Wild Strawberries** by Helen Dumore_

After Matt plays his first Olympic game, he can’t wait to call Patrick. He even cuts out on the celebrations early in order to hurry back to the sparse little hotel room so he can be alone long enough. Matt flings himself on the bed and scrolls through his speed-dial to find Patrick’s number.

“Hello?” Patrick’s gruff voice gives him a rush almost as good as hockey. Matt had tried to convince himself that he just wanted to share the good news, but the truth is that he misses the man intensely. He’s so used to having him around whenever things get difficult, it’s almost like there’s a void at his back, an empty, cold spot where Patrick is supposed to be standing behind him.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Matt says jubilantly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you flowers but I’ll bring you home a gold medal to make up for it.”

“You win the medal for _you,_ ” Patrick responds, but Matt can hear the smile in the man’s voice. “That was a good game.”

“It was an _amazing_ game,” Matty corrects. He didn’t score any points, but Canada won by a landslide and that was what really mattered.

“You did good. I see that breakout you make for Weber that got him the goal. That was a good play. I am proud of you.”

Matt presses his ear against the phone, drinking in the words greedily. He just eats it up when Patrick praises him and he needs it now, more than ever, now that so much is at stake. “’M glad I could make you proud,” he mumbles. Shit, why does he have to sound like a coy schoolgirl? How will he ever get Patrick to take him seriously, not as a player, but as a potential lover? And still he can’t help it. His crush on Roy is exactly that, and it has a way of turning him to mush at the most inopportune moments.

Patrick laughs. “You are an elite player. You should not put stock in my praise; you know you are good. Believe in that.”

“I do. It’s just that I like to hear it anyway.” Matt feels his face grow warm and he’s glad Patrick can’t see him. “I like to make you happy.” The thought is warm in Matt’s stomach. “Don’t you like it when I make you happy?” he adds flirtatiously. Even saying it turns him on. Patrick just grunts a laugh in response, but Matt can tell he’s pleased. “What are you wearing?” he asks impulsively.

Patrick’s laughter is tinged with disbelief. “We are not gonna do that,” he says.

“Come on, I have the whole room to myself for an hour. I need to let off steam. I’m all wound up. You don’t want me to be all tense and nervous during my next game, right?”

“I want you to be focus on your next game,” Patrick growls.

“Awwww, Patrick,” Matt moans, enjoying the way the man snorts. He likes teasing him. “I’m all . . . stimulated. I need you to make it better.”

“You should go to bed.”

Matt doesn’t tell him that he’s already sort of in bed. He looks out the window, drinking in the glow of the city. “Can’t. Too wired. I’m just wearing boxers, by the way.”

“Dutchy . . .”

Matt grins. Patrick is funny; he thinks Matt is the stubborn one, but the way Matt sees it, he is an unstoppable force that has come up against his own, personal, immovable object. As much as Patrick insists that they’re just too different, Matty suspects they may be, in fact, too similar. Not that he’s giving up just yet. Maybe he can’t move the object, but he can make it blush. “Red boxers,” he adds cheekily. “That’s what I’m wearing. And a T. But I can take the T off.” He struggles, one-handed, to get his jeans off to make this true. He doesn’t want to be a liar, after all.

Patrick just groans—like he’s exasperated.

“You know, these rooms aren’t real well built and there are a lot of minor issues. For example, right now the heat seems to be turned up _awfully_ high,” Matt informs him using his most innocent voice. “I mean, I’ve got sweat dripping down my chest. I think I should lose the shirt.”

Patrick hoots with merriment. “Oh yes, you are very smooth, Dutchy. Yes, I would not have expect that at all. Put your clothes back on, you little—”

“I’m not little.”

“I do not mean literal, but—”

“Right now I’m pretty big.” There is heavy silence on the other end of the line. Matt bites his lip, hoping Patrick didn’t disconnect. He knows he’s pushing it, but that’s the only way to get anywhere. “Please don’t stop talking to me,” he says quietly.

Roy clears his throat. “What do you want me to say?”

“Something in French?” Matty suggests with a hopeful lilt in his voice. He adjusts himself on the bed, glad he has the place to himself for awhile.

Patrick snorts. “Okay then, how about, baise-moué l’ail?’”

Matt smiles. “Does it mean something dirty?”

“Ha. Well, it is not a compliment, I tell you that.”

“Pa-atrick,” Matt groans. “Are you doing this just because I didn’t get you a valentine card or present?”

“I am goddamn grateful you did not get me anything. You are enough trouble already. Hanging all over me, calling me all the time, showing up at my house, making me all hot and bother, invading my personal space. You are going to make people notice us, and that will not be good. Trust me, you do not want anyone to know about this.”

Matt is very careful to keep his mouth shut on this issue. He knows people have already noticed. Anyway, the truth is, he’s already told Pauly. He really needed a confidant, and he trusts Pauly and besides, it didn’t end up being a big deal. Pauly thinks the whole thing is hilarious. He can’t believe Dutchy has a crush on their coach. He’s even amused that Patrick seems to find Dutchy hot as well, though he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut about the whole thing. But he hadn’t been able to give Matt any advice on how to get the man to take him seriously. In the end Pauly had just shrugged and given him his usual gap-toothed grin. _You’ll work it out,_ he’d said.

“You are being awfully quiet,” Patrick says, interrupting his reminiscence. “Am I finally getting through to you? Are you finally take this seriously?”

It annoys Matt that Patrick keeps reverting to a chastising father figure, when that isn’t what he needs at all. “I was imagining what it would be like to suck you off,” he replies, just for the shock factor.

To his surprise this draws an unexpected sound of yearning from Patrick’s end. This is good. This is very good. He grins widely.

Matt licks his lips. He didn’t anticipate the thrill he could get out of saying something dirty to Patrick. His pulse is fluttering and his palms sweat. He wants it so bad. He aches to know if Patrick wants it too, but he’s too scared to ask. Easier to _make_ him want it. He’d probably like having his cock sucked, right? Matt reaches down, touching himself, rubbing himself through the fabric of his undershorts. He’s not sure why, but the thought of being down on his knees in front of Patrick drives him wild. “I’ve never done it, but it sounds hot,” he admits. “It really gets me hot. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, lately.”

Patrick moans. “This is a bad idea,” he says, but his inflection tells Dutchy that he’s resigned to letting it happen anyway.

“Come on, what can it hurt?” Matt whispers. “You’re not even touching me. I mean . . . I wish you were, but your hands are clean.” He lets out a breath through his nose. “Mine aren’t, though.” He licks his palm and slides it into his shorts. “I just wish I could see you while I touch myself.”

“Oh, God.”

Matt lets out a long breath through his nose. “Say something in French to me,” he begs. “Something hot.”

Patrick gives a rumbling groan, like a sinking ship’s hull before it finally gives way to the massive water pressure just before it founders completely. “Je te désire,” he breathes. “Je te desire. Je veux te lécher des hanches jusqu’aux pieds.”

Dutchy sucks in a surprised breath. He isn’t completely sure what Patrick said, but it sounded hot as hell. A small sound escapes him.

“Eh? You like that?” For once, Patrick doesn’t sound doubtful or scolding; he sounds amused, not to mention smug as hell. He continues to pour filthy French into Matt’s ear, his voice a whiskey purr.

Matt whimpers, stroking himself, feeling himself grow harder and harder, shutting his eyes. He likes Patrick’s gruff voice in English; in French it’s downright salacious. His prick throbs in his hand. “Don’t stop,” he begs.

There’s a smile of wicked delight in Patrick’s voice as he continues. “T’as des miches bien fermes et muscles.”

Matt tries to picture Patrick’s hand on his cock, but he just can’t. He can imagine the man watching him though, drinking him in, enjoying the display. He shimmies his shorts down and quickly kicks them to the side. His face is flushed and he swallows hard. God, he hopes they can do this in person someday. Patrick continues to murmur to him, his own voice hoarse with need. It dawns on Matt that Patrick is masturbating too, and a hot wave of arousal washes over him.

Matt tries to tug his cock in rhythm with the man’s voice, drawing ever more eager little groans. Then Patrick chuckles in his ear, and that’s enough to send him over the edge. He whimpers as climax hits him, his breath coming hot and fast. “Oh, God,” he says. “I just—oh. God.” He sounds so shaky and undone, even to himself, and Patrick makes a little noise, and suddenly he wants the man to come, wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything. He adjusts his grip of the phone, holding it close to his sweaty face. “Patrick,” he murmurs. “I want it. I want your cock. I want to stroke it and touch it and taste it, and I want it in me. I want you to take me. I want you to bend me over your bed and fuck me so hard—”

He hears Patrick inhale sharply, then make a long, deep moan, and Matty grins, flopping bonelessly back against his pillows. He feels tired and triumphant. He looks out his window at the night, knowing he’ll have to get dressed soon, but right now he enjoys the cool air on his sweaty, overheated skin. “Was it good for you?” he purrs.

Patrick lets out a torrent of irritated, incomprehensible French and hangs up on him.

Matt tosses his phone onto the night stand, laughing.

 

 

oOoOoOo

_And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill_  
 _Beside it, and there may be two or three_  
 _Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough._  
 _But I am done with apple-picking now._  
 _**After Apple Picking,** by Robert Frost_

Patrick stands in the concourse, tapping a foot impatiently. He’s anxious anyway, and airports are not designed to soothe anxiety. That damn horse statue, for example, seems deliberately crafted to scare the piss out of anyone who has to go through D.I.A.

He spots Matt in the distance, a dufflebag over his shoulder, and his stomach lurches. Hell. Patrick tells himself he isn’t a coward. He knows it was the wrong thing to do, allowing the phone sex to happen. He’s getting in too deep—it’s like he’s scrabbling at the edge of the precipice knowing that it will only buy him moments before he falls. He should have done this earlier. He wanted to. He just didn’t want to distract the boy when he should have been concentrating on winning gold. Not that the phone sex wasn’t a distraction, it was just that breaking his heart would be more of a distraction.

Patrick shuts his eyes for a long moment.

“Hey!” Patrick allows Matt to hug him, but then firmly pushes him away. Matt flips him a half smile like he’s only a little bitter about it. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“It is not a problem,” Patrick replies, but he sounds stiff. Shit, how is he going to get through this? Matt looks tired. Happy, but very tired. Patrick wishes he could take that away, but he knows things are only going to get worse. He’s going to make things worse. Him. His fault. Patrick swallows hard and tries to tell himself it’s better this way—like ripping off a band-aid. The longer he fucks around with the kid the more he will hurt him. Now it’s time to stop fucking around, period. It’s back to practice, back to real life, and things need to get, well, back to _normal_ as quickly as possible. They are in the home stretch now, ready to make a run for the Cup. The time for fucking around is quite literally over.

Matt must sense something is wrong because even as they leave the airport and head to Patrick’s car he seems uneasy. “I really missed you,” he mumbles.

Patrick tries to smile at him, to give him reassurance, but it hurts. His stomach aches. They drive back to Matt’s place in near silence. Dutchy is looking dejected now, like he knows it’s coming and can’t think of any way to ward it off. He sits with his head down, staring at his hands, a muscle in his jaw working.

When they pull up at Matt’s house, he doesn’t push it. He just looks away. “Thanks for the ride,” he says in a hollow voice. He opens the car door.

“Dutchy . . .”

Matt shakes his head, refusing to look at him. Like if he doesn’t see it, it won’t be real. Patrick feels like shit. He can’t remember the last time he felt this bad. Probably his last actual NHL loss. Yeah, it feels pretty much just like that. Guilt, fatigue, regret and a huge sense of painful finality all seem wadded in a ball in his stomach. He watches Matt get out and pull his bag out of the back seat. “I am sorry,” Patrick croaks.

Matt shuts his eyes and shakes his head, a caustic smile twisting his mouth. “Yeah.”

Patrick knows that Matt wants to have the pride of just walking away without having to actually hear the words, but they absolutely have to be said. He needs to be clear and Matt needs to understand he won’t waver on this. “I have to end this. It was a bad thing I did, a bad thing I have been doing. I lose my focus. I owe you more than that, as your coach.” He winces because it’s a lie. It would be a good reason—the _right_ reason—but that’s not why he’s doing it. He’s ending it because he’s scared, because Dutchy is too good at making him lose control. He hates feeling like he doesn’t have control. If he doesn’t end it now, he’ll never be able to do it. Maybe he’s just a coward.

Matt rolls his eyes. “Fine. It’s your decision. I can’t make you—I can’t make it happen. Your job is more important. I can accept that.” He looks down at the ground, still shaking his head angrily. “I still say we could have made it work.” His voice is hoarse.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I wish—” Patrick breaks off with a sigh. He wishes somehow they could have played at the same time. He would have loved it, loved even bucking the system and telling everyone who didn’t like it to fuck off. He would have been fiercely protective of him, looked out for the kid but still guided him through the tricky bits of being an NHL star. “You find someone your age. You get some experience. You just—do this in a way you will not have to regret,” he advises.

Matt doesn’t look at him. He just continues to shake his head a little. Patrick knows he’s coming off patronizing, but that’s how it has to be. It’s time for Patrick to behave like a goddamned adult.

“You need to take some time?”

Matt looks at him sharply, offended. “I am a professional,” he grinds out.

Patrick tries to smile. “I mean from the trip and everything. You got to be tired.”

“I dunno. We’ll see.” Matt raises his chin. “But you don’t have to worry about on the ice. I promise I won’t let anything spill over into my game. I wouldn’t have in any case.”

“I know. You never make me doubt that you take the game seriously. You have the heart of a champ.”

“Ha. Not quite in the way I’d like,” Matt says with a dry smile.

Patrick looks at him sadly. “I have very strong feelings for you, never think otherwise. You are . . . you are something real special, Dutchy. I wish I had cut this off at the beginning, because you deserve a lot better than that.”

Resting one hand on the roof of the car, Matt looks at him for a long time. “I don’t,” he says evenly. “I’m happy with what I got, even if it’s all I get. I’m just sorry I put you in such a shitty position. I was the one who—who didn’t listen when you said we should knock it off, so I really only have myself to blame.”

Patrick shakes his head. “Let us not look at it this way,” he urges. “Let us just say, hey, the timing was not so great for us. Neither of us was looking to hurt the other. Right now we just got to focus on the hockey, because that is our job and our goal and we lose sight of that for a while. Everything else can wait.”

Matt shrugs. “I guess it will have to,” he says wryly.

Patrick motions to him. “Come here,” he says. “Please.” Matt shuffles his feet reluctantly, but finally settles back into the car. “Hey, you work your magic the way you did on me, you will be a very popular guy.” Matt laughs a little, and that’s good—it’s good to see him smile. That’s what Patrick wants now more than anything. Patrick reaches out, grabs hold of Dutchy’s shirt, and for the first and last time, pulls him forward into a kiss. Nothing indecent, he promises himself, but he feels like he can’t live without one more, just one.

Dutchy makes a soft sound of regret, almost a whimper, but he reaches up to curl a hand around the back of Patrick’s neck. The kiss lasts longer than perhaps it should, neither of them willing to let go. Finally it’s Matt who pulls away. His brow is knotted and he swallows hard. He looks angry but Patrick can tell he’s not, not really; he’s in pain and still doesn’t understand.

Patrick yanks him close again, kisses him chastely on the cheek and murmurs in his ear, “Je suis désolé. Je suis désolé. Tu es beau et je suis désolé.”

Matt pushes him away, laughing softly and quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I know you’re sorry,” he says. “Don’t—just—I have to go. I’ll be fine. I promise.” He gets out of the car as quickly as possible, keeping his face turned away. “I’ll see you at practice,” he promises.

“Okay.” Matt shuts the door and Patrick drives off, still glancing in his rearview mirror. Dutchy stands there looking after him.

Patrick tries to convince himself he did the right thing—it sure hurt enough to be the right thing, didn’t it? He just wishes he could say he did it for good, unselfish reasons. Jesus, he is such a prick sometimes. Whether he’s taking advantage of Dutchy or telling him to get lost, he’s an asshole.

He wonders how the two of them will navigate things back on the ice. He already knows he’s not nearly as cool and professional as he should be—this whole damn mess is proof of that. And it’s not like this is going to stop him from wanting Matt. He hopes he can keep his head. And he hopes Matt . . . well, he only wants what’s best for Matt, whatever that is. For all Patrick knows, he could go straight to Joe and tell him the whole thing, or go higher up the ladder, if he wanted. And that, Patrick feels, would be kind of a weight off his shoulders. He feels like such crap for hurting Matt that some sort of punishment would be a relief. And if he lost his job from this . . . well, he deserved it, and that is that.

Patrick puts his foot down and the car shoots off. Patrick watches Dutchy’s figure dwindle as he gains distance, but he doesn’t feel any better about things.

Yeah, he’s pretty sure he’s a coward.

 

 

oOoOoOo

_I remember a hornet, too, that flew in_  
 _Through the open window_  
 _Mad to taste the sweet fruit_  
 _**The Melon,** by Charles Simic_

The Family Sports Center is crowded with people who want to get a glimpse of the newly minted medal winners, and Matt is stopped several times for pictures and questions. He doesn’t have time to pity himself because there are just too many people crowded around the glass, too many reporters present, and he doesn’t want to let them down.

To Matt’s surprise, seeing Patrick at practice doesn’t feel as bad as he thought it would. It hurts, sure, it hurts like _hell,_ but he doesn’t let it get him down too bad. Then again, it’s difficult to feel too bad when you’re showing off a gold medal and your legs feel good and strong under you, and you know you’re a contender for a Cup.

He even manages to smile at Patrick, and that hardly hurts at all. No, that isn’t it. It’s just that Matt’s used to playing through pain of one kind or another.

And then again, there is some small part of him, some part that he’s trying hard to quiet, that keeps whispering, _Maybe next year._ It’s the same stupid part of him that keeps him playing hard year after year, that kept him with the Avs even when the prospects weren’t very good. Matt is simply not a quitter. When he knows what he wants, he goes after it—hard.

And practice is going well. As exciting as it was to work with the best of the best, there’s a real feeling of coming home, being back on his old line. “Hey, I’m open!” he shouts at O’Reilly, and the puck flutters over and he gets off a real nice shot. He’s tired, he’s hurt, but he’s still got his game. “Nice pass,” he tells Factor as the guy glides over.

“Nice shot,” Factor replies with a grin, slapping him on the back. “Wouldn’t expect any less from a gold medal winner,” he adds.

Matt laughs. “Just be sure to say that good and loud the next time Landeskog skates by,” he replies.

He must seem really normal, because nobody questions him. Nobody can tell his heart’s broken, and that’s sort of weird. He’s always pretty much worn it on his sleeve. On the other hand, it’s nobody’s business and never was, and at least he’s not making an ass out of himself or anything.

Practice goes pretty well. He likes the little kids watching, banging excitedly on the glass, hoping to get his attention. He smiles and waves at a couple of them. The team has a great energy, and he feeds off that energy; he needs it now, needs it more than he ever has. Everyone is really great, congratulating him on his gold, chirping him and telling him not to get too big a head. The press wants pictures and he smiles hard in all of them, often side by side with Gabe, holding up their shiny medals.

When practice is over, Gabe manages to smile at him and even throws an arm around him as they leave the ice. He nearly knocks Matt over, suddenly pulling him into a headlock and rubbing his knuckles against the top of Dutchy’s helmet. “Proud of you,” the captain grunts, eventually letting go. Matt appreciates it. He knows how much that cost the Swede—Gabe is every bit as heartbroken as Matt is right now, even if it’s for a different reason.

“You, too,” Matt says. “You really battled.” He nudges the guy with his elbow, hard, in that way you do when you when you’re trying to cover up getting overly sentimental. “They made a good choice, naming you assistant captain.”

“Yeah, well,” is all Gabe says with a shrug, in that sort of _still fell short_ way. It sucks to come so close to winning it all and only coming up second. Right now Gabe probably feels like he lost everything, and having to watch Matt parade around with his gold is certainly salt in the wound. Matt makes a mental note not to give him any shit for a couple of days. They need to be a team now, and goodnatured ribbing can wait.

They go in and change and Pauly grabs him. “Let’s go out,” he suggests. “Gotta buy the winner a beer, right? Celebrate your win a little more?”

“Sure, great. Only I’ll buy. Gotta be nice to the losers,” Matt teases. “Which is everybody except me.”

Pauly pulls a face, which is understandable, considering the U.S. didn’t even manage to get the bronze. They’re all heartbroken today, all of them, Matt realizes. He heaves a sigh. “Sounds like fun,” Pauly says slowly. His expression says something different, though: _What happened? You oughta be over the moon and you look like someone kicked you._

Matt swallows. He knew someone would notice eventually. You can’t work this closely with a bunch of nosy jerks who care about you without them figuring shit out. He gives a little shrug indicating they’ll talk about it over drinks. “Let’s go,” is all Matt says.

They actually end up somewhere kind of nice. They slide into a corner booth in a place near Park Meadows, where they can get some relative privacy and he can get a good scotch, even though he knows he shouldn’t. The lights are low and it’s quiet and classy and the waitress gives them space. Matt usually prefers a place with good country music, but right now he wants privacy more than tunes. He figures later, when he’s really feeling self-indulgent and full of self-pity, he’ll hit a real honky tonk and wallow in some wife-done-left-me music. For the moment, he’s not sure he can handle that.

“That sucks,” Pauly tells him sympathetically after Matt gives him the short version of how things ended.

“My fault. I pushed and I pushed. You know. I just wasn’t going to take no for an answer.” Matt frowns at his drink, angry with himself. Maybe if he’d played hard-to-get, given the guy some space, Patrick wouldn’t have gotten cold feet.

Pauly shrugs. “I dunno. He’s from a different generation. Coming out of the closet is probably harder when you grew up in that era.”

“It’s not like he’s a hundred and twelve years old,” Matty says, rolling his eyes.

“Hey, every once in a while _I’ll_ look around and say, ‘When the fuck did X become a thing?’ or ‘Why is everyone suddenly talking about Y?’ Shit changes and sometimes it changes fast, and it’s easier for some people than others. I mean, progress is great and all, but it can be scary too, even if you wanted it. And you know it was different back when he was playing.”

Matt laughs at him. “I’m glad the wizened old twenty-eight year old grandpa is around to share his worldly knowledge with me.”

Pauly laughs too. “Fuck you.”

Matt sighs. “So you really think that’s all it is? You think he’s just scared?”

“Sure. Look, Dutchy, I don’t want to be a dick about this, but you don’t got any brakes, you know? Sometimes you just barrel in without thinking about what’ll happen.” Paul shrugs and takes a long pull on his beer. “You were pretty aggressive with him. I mean, everyone thought it was kind of hilarious, but for a guy like Patrick, I mean, shit, maybe he needs more time, is all.”

“What do you mean, everyone thought it was hilarious?” Matt asks sharply.

Pauly looks abashed. “You weren’t exactly Mr. Subtlety, you know?”

Matt is mortified. “I was that obvious?”

“It’s no big deal, okay? You just . . . yeah, people kind of joked about you being hot for teacher. No one was going to give you shit about it or anything. Gabe heard some stuff in the locker room and put out there that anyone who said one single homophobic word would be sent to ‘Landeskog’s Workplace Sensitivity Training Seminar,’ also known as ‘Getting Your Ass Beat By An Angry Swede,’ so no one wanted to be that guy. But yeah, I think the guys all noticed. I mean, he smiles and you just fucking light up like a Christmas tree. And you were following him everywhere like a puppy dog.”

“Oh, Christ.” Matt covers his face with his hands.

“It’s fine, I promise.”

Matt doesn’t know how he’s going to be able to look his teammates in the eyes. Things just seem to keep getting worse.

“Hey, you wouldn’t have wanted to lie about it forever, right?”

Matt’s forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, at least now you know the guys’ll be okay. They’ll give you grief, but . . .”

Matt hadn’t even worried about the guys. But still, it was kind of a relief to know he was pretty much out of the closet without even having to come out of the closet.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

“Yeah.” Matt wishes he could say more. He’s just not sure what he’d like to say, or what he even feels. Mostly right now he feels angry, cheated even. And he hates himself for that, because he knows it isn’t true and that Patrick never owed him a damn thing.

Pauly folds his arms on the dark wood of the table and leans forward, resting his chin on them, watching Matt with warm eyes. He gives it some time before he says anything. “If you want, we could spar a little tomorrow morning. You know, let off some steam before the game?”

Matt grins. “Yeah. Maybe.” It would be kind of fun to play-tussle a bit, to try to get a couple of good jabs in. Pauly could probably use it too, considering that last game he played. “Yeah,” he repeats. A fight would get him pumped.

“Cool.” Pauly sits up and reaches over to sort of noogie Matt’s head. Matt has to laugh. Gabe might be the captain, but Pauly’s often the one guys go to when they need advice. “I should probably head home,” Pauly says regretfully, and Matt nods. “You coming?”

“I think I’m gonna wallow in my drink for a little while longer,” Matt tells him. “Don’t worry. I’ve got the bill.”

“All right.” Pauly stands up and glances around to make sure the waitress isn’t coming over. “You know, it doesn’t mean he didn’t like you,” he says.

“I know. Just not enough to . . . it doesn’t matter.” Matt looks away sharply.

“Well, fuck him if he can’t handle it,” Pauly says, with an air of confidence. “You just put yourself out there, you’ll have guys falling all over you. You don’t need him.”

It’s the go-to you-got-dumped talk, but Matt smiles anyway. Why bother? It’d just be a rebound thing. He’s too raw to find anything real right now. “Yeah, right. Maybe.”

He’s never tried to pick up a guy before. He doesn’t know how. It’s a whole different world, he suspects, and his hockey status might not be as enticing as it has been to girls. Maybe guys wouldn’t be into their boyfriend coming home all banged up and missing teeth and covered in stitches. Then again, there were probably some guys who’d be into it. His mom always said there was someone for everyone.

“Maybe,” Matt repeats.

“You know they will,” Pauly assures him in a low voice. “Just go for it. You see some guy you think is hot, you just ask him for his number. Get back on the horse. You’ll feel better.”

Dutchy has to laugh; getting back on the horse sounds kind of appealing if he can find the right guy. That would show him, all right.

Pauly squeezes his shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Drive safe,” Matt tells him. He watches Pauly leave and heaves a sigh. Just ask for some guy’s number, huh? He bet it wouldn’t be so easy. He finishes his drink, but the waitress doesn’t return. The place is getting kind of busy now. It occurs to him that maybe he should give up his table so they could bus it and other people could eat. He gets up and makes his way over to the bar and informs the bartender, and asks that they put another scotch on his tab.

The guy nods. “What do you want?”

Matt shrugs. “Glenmorangie, 18 year,” he suggests.

“Sure.”

“Good taste,” the guy sitting next to him remarks.

“Thanks.” He’s a sharp looking guy, suit and tie and slicked back hair. He smiles at Dutchy. “Can I get your number?” Matt blurts.

The guy’s face sort of freezes, but then he smiles—rather ruefully. “Er, I’m not into that,” he replies. “Sorry, buddy.” He gets up and fishes some cash out of his pocket, tosses it down on the bar.

“Sorry,” Matt mumbles, embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about it.”

The bartender comes back over, takes the cash, and flashes Matt a smile. “Keep swinging, cutie,” he says. “You’ll get a home run if you keep trying.”

Matt laughs, face still warm. “I don’t know about that—I play hockey. Metaphorical baseball is outside my area of expertise.”

The bartender laughs and Matt decides he’s really kind of good-looking, even though he’s a bit older. Dark hair, flashing blue eyes, and a tan even though it’s winter. He’s really put together, really stylish. The guy is looking Matt up and down as well. “Yeah? You play for D.U.?”

Matt ducks his head. “No. Uh, the Avs, actually.”

“No way. You’re way too young to be in the pros.” At first Matt feels vaguely embarrassed—he’s aware that he tends to look even younger than he actually is, but then he realizes that the guy means it as a compliment.

“Thanks.” He doesn’t know how to respond in kind. ‘You look young, too,’ lacked a certain something, and besides, with an older guy that would be clumsy. ‘Do you come here often?’ was patently stupid. “I’ve been in the league five years now,” Matt finally says. It’s not a pick-up line, but at least it keeps the conversation going.

“You must have some battle scars,” the guy tells him with a wink.

Matt sits up straight and immediately points to his chin. “Nineteen stitches. Took a Drew Doughty slapshot to the face. But. I mean. I made my next shift, no big deal. And we won the game.”

The guy leans over. Matt can smell his cologne—Polo or something, he doesn’t know, but it’s exciting. It’s masculine. He likes it. The guy trails a finger over the scar and gives Matty a wicked grin. “Very sexy,” he growls in approval.

Matt smiles at him. “You want to see my gold medal?”

The guy’s blue eyes kindle. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“It’s in my car,” Matt tells him.

 _So it’s a rebound thing,_ he tells himself. _So what?_


	2. Jealously, It Is Bitter as a Green Spring Berry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick comes to realize he's not really the adult in the relationship and that he's made a big mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have poked at this for ages, but I'm getting ready to leave town and I didn't sleep last night and I didn't want to make you guys wait another week for me to get back to post. I hope you enjoy it! Now I get to concentrate on my fic for the big bang. :) 
> 
> Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyy, now I get a week of sun and sand and lounging in my float with a beer and a book about Patrick Roy! Life does not get any sweeter than that!

_you have flayed us_

_with your blossoms,_

_spare us the beauty of fruit-trees. ****_

_**Orchard,** by Hilda Doolittle_

 

Patrick watches Matt closely at the next few games, but he seems fine. Sure, he doesn’t meet Patrick’s eyes very often, and maybe he’s a little terse, but he never for a moment lets it affect his game.

It’s good, and it only gets easier.

After a week or so, Matty is almost back to normal, laughing and gregarious and giving Patrick that same old smile. When Patrick pats him on the shoulder after a good game, he doesn’t even blink. He just beams up at the man.

“Yeah. I knew we’d win tonight. I had a feeling,” he says airily.

“That is good. You let me know next time you get this feeling, maybe I make a bet with Jean Martineau and you can win me a case of beer, eh?”

Matt laughs. “Sure, coach.”

So they are back to that, then. Coach, not partner. Matt has drawn a very clear line, but it’s not an egregious line. He’s setting out his boundaries, plain and clear: _I am still hurt,_ Patrick hears, _so don’t push it any further._ Patrick respects this and keeps his distance.

He thinks the whole thing has blown over remarkably easy, and he is glad to have it happen this way. He still has his fantasies and wistful moments, but it’s best for Dutchy, best for both of them. It worked out good. They are going to be okay.

At least, that’s how he feels until the brunch.

It’s a charity brunch, the first function of the Avs’ Better Halves in quite some time. Patrick doesn’t bring a date; it’s not like it’s mandatory. But Dutchy struts in with a smile and new guy on his arm. A handsome guy. And Matt is not shy about introducing him, either.

“Hey, coach, this is Chad. My boyfriend,” Dutchy tells him, smile patently fake but his eyes daring Patrick to say a damn thing about it. The man is almost as old as Patrick, and the realization is like having a bucket of ice dumped over his head. Patrick is taken by surprise. Maybe he mumbles something or asks the guy how they met or something. He says _something,_ at any rate, that keeps the damned conversation going.

“At a bar, naturally,” Chad tells him, those blue eyes laughing at him. “I have such a penchant for men with tasty scars, and Matt has some very sexy scars.” He laughs with a shitty, debonair arrogance that makes Patrick want to bash him in the shin with his goal stick. And that would be even less acceptable today than it once would have been. He has to play polite.

Oh, hell, Patrick hates him on sight. Suddenly the ferocious competitive spirit rises up in him, makes him feel like he’s staring down Vernon, knowing the game is lost and all he can do about it is smash someone’s fucking face in.

He drags in a deep breath through his nose. “It is nice for Dutchy to make new friends,” Patrick grinds out. “It can be hard sometimes because the work is demanding. We keep him very busy.” _You are a hobby,_ he says with his eyes. _You are not part of his plan, and you won’t win him a Cup. If you get in the way, you will be very quickly tossed aside._

“You do work him very hard. That’s okay, it’s good for him.” Chad’s smile is all sparkles. “I’m glad you’re working off at least some of his energy. I’ve gotta say, he still seems to have plenty when he comes home at night; I don’t know where he gets it all.”

“Good diet,” Matt mumbles, obviously aware that he’s caught between two men firing shots.

Patrick’s stomach sinks and he’s suddenly plagued by doubts. It hasn’t even been a month. Not even a month. Are they living together already? How serious is this? Has Dutchy completely gotten over him? And what kind of sleaze is this guy? Everything about him is too slick, too calm. He’s probably after Dutchy’s money. Or else, Dutchy is a trophy to him, a younger stud he can show off. Patrick can see dozens of things wrong with him, starting with his name— _Chad_. What’s wrong with Matty, that he doesn’t see them too? He’s not stupid.

Patrick is almost vibrating with impotent jealousy. He tries not to let it show, but he knows his face is reddening. Fuck, he never did have any damn control over his temper. “I promise to send him on to you whenever I am through with him,” he spits, and from the corner of his eye sees Matt jerk a little like he’s been slapped. _Oh, shit._ That wasn’t how he meant it at all. He’s just too angry to think straight. He mumbles something about needing a drink and makes an escape.

He finds himself a beer and tries to blend in for awhile, feeling embarrassed. He knows his face is brick red, the way it gets whenever his blood pressure goes through the roof. Fuck. This was what he wanted, but it’s too soon, and the guy is too good looking, and . . . and this isn’t actually what he wanted. That warm and fuzzy little lie he told himself doesn’t hold up in the face of reality. He snaps at a couple of players when they approach him, too, which only makes things worse. He tries hard to get control over himself. He isn’t that guy, not anymore.

Eventually it’s O’Reilly who approaches him with another drink—a glass of water. “You want me to show you a couple of meditation tricks?” he offers.

“Not into yoga unless it is going to help me lose weight,” Patrick grunts, taking the water. He shakes his head. “I am sorry. It just . . . I lose my cool. No good reason.”

Ryan just gives him a zen smile. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Everyone knows that, uh, you’re a passionate guy. I mean, the guys all figure that’s the best thing about having you as a coach. We know that’s bound to spill over into real life sometimes.” He glances in Matt’s direction and smiles crookedly. “You’re only human. We get that.”

“Supposed to be more coach than human,” Patrick says, but he appreciates it nonetheless. Maybe he is putting too much pressure on himself, and in ways he hadn’t noticed, and this is spillover. “Thank you,” he tells O’Reilly.

Later he screws up his courage as tight as he can and makes his way through the crowd to Dutchy. “I’m sorry; can I talk to you for a minute?” he fully expects to get shot down, to have ‘Chad’ tell him to fuck off or for Dutchy to say something worse, which he’ll deserve, but Dutchy just nods and follows him. They make their way out of the conference room and into a relatively quiet hallway.

“What’s up?” Matt asks calmly.

“I owe you apology,” Patrick says. “I was not saying . . .” he trails off, shaking his head. “I was jealous. I was trying to pick a fight with him, not insult you. Just . . . stupid. I am sorry.”

“It won’t happen again,” Dutchy states firmly, defying the man to disagree.

“No, it will not.” Patrick clears his throat. “It is just that, uh, you think for sure he is a good choice for you? For his age he seem a little immature, a little rough on the edges, eh?”

Matt blinks at him, then tries to cover a laugh up with a cough. It takes him a minute to get his composure. “I think that it’s really none of your business,” he says with as much tact as he can muster.

“Yes. Yes, you are right.” Patrick shifts from one foot to the other, still unhappy. “You meet him recently?” he asks.

“No, not exactly. After that first practice back from Sochi.” Matt looks directly into his eyes. He’s standing very tall and there’s a triumph in his bearing.

To Patrick it’s like a punch to the gut. _You were easy to replace_. “Ah. I see.” Patrick feels sick.

Matt blinks at his expression and suddenly looks abashed. “I mean, we met awhile back. We didn’t—haven’t gone out much. My schedule is pretty tight.” He shrugs. “I figured this would be a good opportunity to test the water, as far as the team goes. See how they react to me bringing a guy.”

Come to think of it, Patrick hasn’t heard a peep about it. Gabe had been the first to meet him, welcomed him warmly, and after that, everything seemed like the usual. It all seemed so normal that Patrick only just now remembers how different it really is, or should be. “Oh. They seem like they are okay with it.”

“Most of them, yeah.” Dutchy looks away.

“Someone is giving you trouble?” Patrick asks fiercely. He feels a hot rush of indignation, a strong need to protect Matt even if his boyfriend is a trou du cul. “You tell me, I have a little talk with them, set them right toute de suite, I promise you that. Who is it? It’s not Nate, is it? He’s just young, he doesn’t mean anything by it, but I can talk with him.”

“No, it’s not Nate,” Dutchy insists, smiling a little. “Nate’s actually been . . . you know, it didn’t faze him. I don’t think anything fazes him, except maybe cooking and girls.”

“Then who?”

Matt shakes his head, still smiling. “It’s not like that. Pauly doesn’t like him. But it’s not because of the gay thing,” Matt hastens to add. “They just don’t get along. Pauly thinks he’s abrasive or something. I haven’t figured it out. It’s a personality conflict, nothing major.”

Privately, Patrick thinks Stastny is right on point and makes a mental note to buy him a drink. “Oh. He will come around, I am sure.”

“Yeah.” Matt’s smile is serene. “I’m sure everyone will.”

 _Don’t count on that_ , Patrick thinks, but he tries to force himself to say something agreeable. He ends up muttering something in French, safe in the knowledge that Matt won’t know the difference.

The boy raises his eyebrows. “Well, you don’t have to love him, but you better be a little more respectful than that in the future.” When Patrick just stares, Matt adds dryly, “My French isn’t great but I know a few swear words and I think you just used every last one of them.”

Patrick’s face is hot again. There’s just no getting away from it; one way or another, Matt Duchene is still capable of making him lose control. “Uh. Sorry. It is a little much to ask me to play nice so soon though,” he adds desperately.

Matt’s smile is both bitter and smug. “If you think so, maybe you shouldn’t have decided you didn’t want me.”

At this point, Patrick’s tenuous hold of his temper dissolves completely. He leans forward until he’s nose to nose with Dutchy, stepping forward, jabbing him in the chest with a finger. “I _never_ say I don’t want you—that is the problem.” Matt tries to back away a little, his own body tensing, but Patrick isn’t letting him escape that easily, and he gets even closer, lowering his voice. “I want you _too_ much. You are angry with me, and that is fine. But don’t you dare suggest I don’t want you _with every inch of me._ I do it because I have to. I need to be the adult, no matter how much I want to fuck you.” Patrick realizes he has Duchene backed against the wall, and that they are both breathing heavily, and that Duchene is glaring at him with a sort of angry intensity that brings Patrick’s blood to an excited simmer.

With a growing unease, Patrick realizes he’s put himself in a bad position; even the scent of Matt, up close, has his pulse racing.

Dutchy tilts his head and moves even closer, and for a heart-stopping moment Patrick thinks the boy is going to kiss him. His eyes even flutter shut in anticipation—but instead of a kiss, Matt leans in close to his ear and hisses, “Then maybe you should stop acting like a spoiled child and start acting like a fucking adult.”

Patrick blinks. “I . . .”

Matt pulls away and gives him a significant look. “When you’re ready to start being honest, we can have this discussion again. As long as you’re going to play the martyr and act like you’re some sort of saint for not having a consensual relationship with a twenty-three year old, and then having tantrums when he chooses to see someone else—I don’t have time for that. For the moment, I’ll respect your choices. And you’d goddamn well better learn to respect mine.” He sweeps past Patrick and back into the conference room and Patrick is left staring after him, speechless.

It’s kind of humiliating, it _should_ be humiliating, but mostly Patrick is just shocked. He can’t think of the last time someone laid it on the table for him that way. Even Michèle had never managed to cut him down to size with that kind of quiet authority.

And as embarrassed and ashamed as he is with his own behavior, he has to admit he’s just a little impressed with Matt’s.

 

 

oOoOoOo

_“So sweet,_  
 _so cold," the poet said; but this one’s tart,_  
 _its sunny glow perfected in deceit,_  
 _as emulation of a cunning heart._  
 _**Plums,** by Catherine Savage Brosman_

Patrick shapes up after Matt dressed him down, suddenly on his best behavior. Matt doesn’t bring Chad around anymore either, but then he doesn’t have a lot of reason to. They’re back on the hunt for a Cup, and that’s more important than Patrick _or_ Chad.

Matt works hard, and he sees results. The team is doing really well, and he’s incredibly proud of them, and himself. This is not last year’s team. This is a whole new world for all of them, a real opportunity, and they’re not going to blow it. They’re hard workers, they’re enthusiastic, and they’re focused. Everything is going good on the ice.

Matt does sometimes wish things would go as smoothly off the ice.

For starters, there’s still tension with Patrick. In some ways it’s better—Patrick is treating him differently in some way he can’t really pin down. But he likes it; there’s some weird edge that’s been scoured down. There’s a new respect in the way he talks to Matt, and his previous bratty attitude is gone. On the other hand, it’s worse, too. Patrick is looking at him differently, but he’s still looking at him a lot, with this newfound appreciation, with a real heat in his eyes, and it makes Matt’s breaths come quick and shivery.

Matt wishes he could be annoyed about that, or better, indifferent, but he can’t. He likes being looked at that way, he always has. He tries to tell himself not to ‘perform,’ but sometimes he catches himself doing it anyway. Like he’ll be out at practice and catch himself making a particularly showy spin in the corner, or in the game he’ll give it just that much more jump, and part of him is wondering what Patrick thinks.

It’s not good, but he can’t seem to stop.

And in the locker room, well . . . They don’t say anything. They both pretend it’s not even happening. But sometimes Matt will notice that when he has to pass by Patrick, he brushes a little too close. Or when Patrick hands something to him, he doesn’t take his hand away for awhile. And sometimes Matt will be standing there, tugging his shirt off, and suddenly feels Patrick’s gaze, running longingly, languidly down Matt’s spine and drawing gooseflesh in its wake. Sometimes he dresses more quickly after that; sometimes he moves much more slowly, drawing it out as long as he can. They are circling each other, watching each other, doing some strange new dance.

One day when they’re standing around, chatting about the lineup, he catches Patrick staring at his mouth while he talks, his eyes predatory. Without thinking he lifts a hand to touch his lips, and Patrick’s eyes widen, and he quickly looks away.

Matt finds he can barely breathe. It’s like the tension has sucked all the air out of the locker room.

“Uh, sorry, what were you saying?” Patrick mumbles.

“I was saying something?” Matt says stupidly. He shakes his head hard. “I mean, uh. Yeah, Landy’s line is doing pretty well. They really click.” His mouth feels dry and he licks his lips nervously, and Patrick slams his eyes closed. Ooops. “I should, uh, get changed and get going,” Matt tells him. “I have plans. I need to get moving.”

Getting out of the locker room and away from Patrick is essential. He changes and gets his stuff together as quickly as possible. Once he’s in his car and back on the highway, windows all the way down even though the other cars are fucking loud, he feels a bit better. He’s no longer gulping for air like a fish out of water.

He doesn’t understand why it’s happening. They were good. He had mostly accepted it. He moved on. It was done. Why is the longing building deep in his belly again whenever he thinks of Patrick? He has to stop thinking about him. He needs to be focused on the game. And anyway, he’s seeing someone else, so he really needs to knock it off.

That night he and Chad go out for sushi. It’s a good night, and relaxing and laughing does him a ton of good. For a little while he puts hockey and Patrick and unresolved tension out of his mind completely.

They don’t leave the restaurant until late and then they go back to Chad’s place for drinks. They’re having a good time, debating _The Bachelor_ and whether Juan Pablo is cute (Chad says he’s perfect; Matt thinks he’s okay) and discussing how long it will be before they have a gay spinoff. Both Matt and Chad agree the world is ready for it, and Matt would like it if they got it into production soon so he’d have something to watch on those nights when he’s bored on the road.

And then Chad kisses him. They’ve fooled around before, but with one thing and another, Matt always leaves before anything really happens. It’s not that he isn’t ready; it’s more that he’s worried about expending energy he’ll need for the game, especially when they’re gearing up for a playoff run. Experience has shown him that he’s just not able to have that same intensity the day after he gets off. He knows Chad doesn’t believe him, though. He’s not sure he believes it, either.

But tonight he goes with it. Maybe if he does, the weird tension will go away and he’ll be able to focus on the game without half looking to see if Patrick is watching. So he lets Chad unbutton his shirt, undo his belt buckle.

Matt’s breathing pretty heavily by this point, and Chad is smirking. Matt pulls him into a kiss to wipe the smugness away. God, having Chad’s hand on his prick feels so good it makes his toes curl.

Chad is kissing his way up and down Matt’s neck when Matt grabs the front of his pants. “C’mere,” he mumbles against Chad’s ear. “I wanna do you, too.” To his surprise, Chad pushes his hand away.

“No, let’s start with this. Let me just make you feel good.” He slides down between Matt’s knees, licks a long, hot stripe up his cock and Matt groans, head falling back against Chad’s ultramodern, leather couch.

“That’s nice,” he manages, and Chad laughs. Matt shuts his eyes and Chad sucks his cock. God, it feels amazing. He feels powerful and good and like he could do anything. And it would make Patrick so fucking jealous. He tries to push the thought away, but it keeps bubbling to the surface.

Chad’s there, mouth hot and wet, and Matt tries to concentrate on that, dragging a hand through his hair. But every time he blinks he pictures Patrick standing there, the look in his eyes hot and dangerous, like he’s going to make Matt pay for this later, pay for it hard on all fours. A desperate noise struggles up through his throat.

“Mmm, you like that,” Chad says, but Matt doesn’t even hear him.

He puts a hand on Chad’s head, face-fucks him, imagining Patrick all the while, Patrick standing there, Patrick glaring, Patrick snarling at him, berating him in angry French, telling Matty that he is Patrick’s, that he’d better _not_ let some other man touch him, that he is going to drag him home, that Patrick would teach him good why no other man would ever do, that he wouldn’t even make it as far as the bed, that Patrick would take him right there in the entry way, jerk his jeans down around his hips and turn him and bend him and shove him up against the wall while—

Matt comes hard.

Chad stares at him. He sits back slowly, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

Matt was already flushed, but Chad’s expression makes his face grow even hotter. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—on your face.”

Chad grabs a kleenex off the coffee table and roughly cleans the rest of his face. “Really?” he says angrily, getting to his feet. “Is that _all_ you’re going to apologize for?”

Matt blinks. “What? What did I do?”

Chad barks a laugh of disbelief, his blue eyes indignant. “Seriously? Did you not even hear yourself?” He stomps over to the coat rack and grabs Matt’s jacket, comes back and flings it at him. “You were _coming in my mouth_ , and you moaned, ‘ _Patrick._ ’”

Matt stares at him, totally horrified. He can’t think of a thing to say. He wants to at least make some sort of clumsy excuse, but he is so embarrassed and surprised that he literally can’t think. He just sits there, staring.

“Out,” Chad says, jabbing a finger at the door.

Matt hurries to do his pants up. His hands are shaking. He wants to say that he hadn’t been thinking about Patrick, but it would be such an epic lie. Not only had he been thinking about him, he isn’t sure if he’d have been able to get off without doing it. He tucks his shirt into his jeans, ducking his head so he wouldn’t meet Chad’s eyes.

Chad just stands there, quivering with anger.

“I—I—” Matt stutters, but the look on Chad’s face makes him stop short. He slinks over to the door, trying to think of something to say, unable to get a word out. Once he is out on the porch, he looks helplessly back at Chad and shakes his head. Chad reaches out and slams the door in his face.

He stands there for several minutes in dead silence, staring at the dark wood of the front door without really seeing it, without really thinking anything.

He hadn’t even managed to say he was sorry.

 

 

oOoOoOo

_Cutting the lemon_  
 _the knife_  
 _leaves a little cathedral:_  
 _alcoves unguessed by the eye_  
 _**A Lemon,** by Pablo Neruda_

“I should go to confession,” Patrick says morosely after dinner.

Jean Martineau and Brigitte look at each other, then laugh merrily. Patrick always has dinner Friday nights at the Martineaus’, when his schedule allows. The group is on their third bottle of wine.

“What did you do now?” Jean says, pouring Patrick another glass.

“Yes, tell us; we will hear your confession and absolve you,” Brigitte adds with a dimpled grin.

Patrick is annoyed. It’s unfulfilling to revel in self-pity when no one respects your pain. “I am serious,” he says. This point is somewhat marred by the fact that in gesturing, he manages to knock the bottle over; luckily, Jean has drained it into his glass and so nothing spills out.

“You are serious, bien,” Jean tells him. “Very well. Hurry up and make your confession so you may have the sacrament again.” He spreads his hands generously and motions Patrick to continue.

Patrick scowls at him. “I did something very bad. I have done something . . . inappropriate, and I hurt someone.”

He must sound like he means it, because both Jean and Brigitte sober a little, sitting straighter. “What is it?” Brigitte asks.

“There is a . . . _was_ a boy. He get infatuated with me. And I—I am afraid I fall for him.” Patrick shakes his head. And as sad as he is over his behavior, he’s even more saddened that he had not given in. Now Matty is with someone else, and Patrick is old and tired and not good enough for him in any way. He’s nearly sniveling now, the result of too much wine. He should never have looked twice. “First I let things go too far, then I hurt him by push him away. And now all I want is to take advantage again. I am terrible. He’s just a child, and I am in a position of power, he trust me, and—”

“A _child!_ ” Brigitte repeats in horror. “Patrick, what—who? What have you done?”

“A boy?” Jean says, looking confused.

“Not a _little_ boy,” Patrick admits. He sighs. “Mais je me sens coupable.”

“A teenager?” Brigitte still looks like she is ready to leap to her feet and summon the authorities.

“No.” Patrick shakes his head, but that only makes it muzzier. “It is not like that, but—”

“Well, _who_ , then?” Brigitte demands.

Patrick hangs his head. “Matty Duchene,” he mumbles.

For a moment both Brigitte and Jean wear identical looks of confusion. Then Brigitte’s face clears. “Matt Duchene is your star forward, yes? Patrick, Matt Duchene has to be at least in his twenties, and he’s been a professional hockey player for—for—”

“Five years, I believe,” her husband puts in.

Brigitte nods. “Perhaps a bit too young to work, yes, but not in a way that makes you a slavering pedophile.” She lets out a long breath and fans a hand in front of her red face. “You nearly scared me to death. I thought you were about to tell us you had been having the urge to ravage kindergarteners. Good heavens.” She gets up. “I am going to open some windows and make the coffee.”

“Isn’t Matt dating that older man? I heard someone say that he showed up at one of the brunches with someone,” Jean says. Jean tilts his head, trying to remember. “They said he was very handsome.”

Patrick glowers. “He is not so very handsome.” He gestures with his glass, slopping red wine over the side. Patrick grumbles in French all about Chad, muttering things like _p'tit Christ_ and _mange de la marde,_ while Jean sort of sways in his seat, watching Patrick in amusement. Patrick helpfully outlines Chad’s many shortcomings, such as the fact that Patrick is sure that he dyes his hair to look younger, and that he uses bronzer; he is obviously shallow and only wants Dutchy for his—admittedly exquisite—body, and does not appreciate him as an equal, and surely only wants him for sex except c’est possible he wants his money, too, Patrick can tell. He also adds, after another swig of wine, that Matt Duchene adores _him,_ Patrick, and would not have ever gone off with any man with the temerity to be named Chad, if Patrick hadn’t hurt him.

Jean snorts. “No offense, my friend, but I think you are too immature for Matt Duchene.”

“He was too immature for Michèle, too,” Brigitte adds, coming back in with a pot of coffee. She giggles. “Oh, Jean. Il est dans l'amour. I think it’s very sweet.” She grins at her husband. “When he said he did something bad my first thought was—”

“He started a fight in a bar, yes?” Jean puts in.

“Yes, that, or possibly he lost his temper and punched one of the junior coaching staff members in the nose. He would, too.” Brigitte gives Patrick a wicked wink that she is only allowed to do because he used to cheat off of her back in school. “But yes, I definitely thought some sort of physical altercation.”

Jean pours himself a coffee. “ _Then_ I thought perhaps he was picked up for drunk driving.”

“Then he would have received a felony charge in addition for beating up the policeman who pulled him over,” Brigitte says dryly.

Jean snickers.

“Shut up; I barely drink,” Patrick replies, draining his glass. They don’t hear him; they have turned it into a game; _Patrick Roy Did Something Bad Again: Three Guesses!_

“ _My_ second thought was he got caught stuffing the poor goalie into illegal size pads,” Brigitte says. “Or possibly he took out a—what is it called? A hitman, to take out Bruce Boudreau.”

“Mmm.” Jean shakes his head. “That he would never do. If he is going to end your life, he will take his jacket off and do it fair play, with his own two hands. But cheating! Cheating was way up the list.”

Patrick draws himself up huffily. “I have never done such a thing.” Jean and Brigitte both laugh until he ducks his head sheepishly. “That was a long time ago,” he complains. “That was school. It does not count.”

They only continue laughing, so Patrick gets up and stands by one of the open windows. It is a nice evening; someone attended to the lawn earlier and now the breeze carries with it a lovely scent of vegetation. He sighs. Why can he not be happy with just these things, little things like this?

He thought it would be easy; the hockey is still so good and it takes so much from him, but damn him, he spends the days at practice watching Matt watch him. He devours Matt with his eyes whenever the boy half turns, slides his jersey up over his head, removes his shirt and gear, stripping languidly, and all the while watching Patrick out of the corner of his eye—Patrick, who salivates over each inch of skin, who would give anything to lick the boy’s shoulder blade, who nearly goes to his knees when he sees those muscular thighs exposed. And in the end he always turns away and silently curses himself, and goes home and jerks himself off, thinking of Matt and guiltily watching terrible porn on the computer with titles such as, “Str8 Muscle Stud Does Gay for Pay,” and “Hazed Jock Jerks Off.”

He is really beginning to hate himself.

“Hestie de câlisse de tabarnac!” he hears Jean swear. “Will you just look at him? He’s going into his brooding.”

Brigitte rolls her eyes. “Patrick, darling, you are full of shit. Come sit down and drink your coffee. Enough diva au masculine.” Patrick shambles back to his seat, still heaving sighs. “So you wish to bed Mr. Duchene. Get in line. It is entirely irrelevant as he has a man for him already. I am sorry you were scooped.”

Patrick accepts his coffee and a couple of cookies with ill grace. “I _want_ him,” he says with a frown. He looks at his hands. “He chased me; he wanted me too. I think I make a mistake.”

“Then go to him and tell him and stop acting like Dame Camille,” Jean advises. “Really, Patrick, your self-importance . . . you came to whine at us that a handsome young _adult_ —and I stress this word, yes—has a crush on you, and you have feelings for him as well? If this is as bad as it gets, come back to us when you have real problems.”

Brigitte sniffs and presses the back of her hand dramatically to her forehead. “Oh, Jean and Brigitte, _c’est terrible!_ You won’t believe, this hockey hunk, this delicious young roué has fallen in love with me and will not stop trying to woo me! Oh, _quelle difficulté!_ And he is so handsome, too, _pauvre de moi_! Ah, Patrick Roy problems. I wish I had such a curse on me.”

Patrick throws his napkin at her and she and Jean collapse into laughter.

Patrick scowls at them. They have been friends since childhood, and they are used to Patrick’s tendency to overreact about things. Perhaps he is taking himself too seriously again. Jean and Brigitte have always been good about having a pin on hand when someone needs to pop his overinflated sense of self. He will think on it.

Patrick stands up. “I need to pee, and then I think I should head to bed.”

“You are not driving in that state,” Brigitte puts in. “The guest room is all made for you.”

“Well, fine. Thank you.” Patrick swans off with as much dignity as he can. It isn’t much. His balance is sorely off due to the wine, and he walks smack into a kitchen chair and falls over it.

Jean and Brigitte pick him up and dust him off, but he can still hear them laughing all the way up the stairs.

The next day is a game, a big one, against San Jose. San Jose is tough. Patrick wakes up feeling refreshed and ready, in spite of the hangover. Today feels important. He showers and dresses, doing his tie as he ponders the strange weight in the air, like something is going to happen.

When the team takes the ice there is a good energy. Patrick’s not sure why, but he knows they will win. He can feel it.

Unfortunately, just minutes into the game, Matty and Ginner aren’t paying attention and collide, knee-on-knee, and just like that, Matty is out of the game. Patrick can’t think about that right now though; the hockey is still happening.

The team reacts as it should, Mitchell sliding into place, everyone upping their game just a little. It’s not an easy game, but something feels easy. Patrick talks them up, tells them not to worry about Dutchy, to just focus, and they listen.

During the break he finally goes to hear the bad news. He can tell it’s bad news, in fact, by the look on Matt’s face. His leg is elevated, the team doctor nearby. “We’ll need an M.R.I. to tell anything for sure,” the doc says, but everyone already suspects. He shoots Patrick a sympathetic look and leaves, giving the two of them some privacy.

Matt’s jaw is tight. “I’m sorry,” he grunts.

“Don’t worry about it. It is not a problem. The team, they step up. We play without you before, we manage again.”

“Yeah,” Matt says glumly, looking at his leg. His hair hadn’t even had a chance to get sweaty. Neither of them says anything about the upcoming playoffs. If it’s an MCL, he probably won’t make the first round. Not at full strength. It will be hard.

“Look, you want me to call Chad for you?”

Matty looks up, eyes wide. “Um, no. Thanks.” He looks away and lets out a long breath. “We kind of broke up,” he mumbles.

“Oh. I am sorry to hear that.” Matty eyes him sideways, and Patrick makes a helpless gesture. “What? At least I have the decency to lie this time, right?” Matt laughs, then gives a shrug and nods. “What happen? You two seem tight.”

Matt throws on a lopsided smile. “We were fundamentally incompatible. He turned out to be a Red Wings fan.”

Patrick realizes he isn’t going to get the truth; Matt isn’t the sort to air dirty laundry. Again, something that should irritate him makes him feel pretty good. He likes that about Matt. Matt always shows class about these things.

Matt is trying to look brave, but Patrick can see the sadness in his eyes, the frustration, and it’s not just the breakup. His season may be over, and Patrick knows that’s what’s really killing him right now. “Hey,” Patrick says hoarsely, and reaches out to take Matt’s hand. “We will get there eventually for sure. You are a Cup caliber player, of that I have no doubt.”

Matt grins at this, just lights up, and for a moment he’s looking at Patrick that same old way, like Patrick really is some fucking Saint, not just a jerk who happened to be pretty good at hockey. Patrick loves him for that, he really does. Matt had seen him at some nasty moments, and he still manages to look at Patrick that way.

And suddenly, standing there with Matt grinning at him that way, that adoration doesn’t seem so overwhelming and unwelcome as it once did. Patrick doesn’t feel like he’s lost control. Suddenly he feels more in control of things than ever. He feels—not young, exactly, but like himself. With Matty looking at him like he’s the whole world, Patrick feels like maybe he could be; he feels like Patrick Roy—perhaps not the legend, but the actual man. He feels like Patrick Roy at his best, whether that’s snagging the puck for an amazing save and winking at the guy who took the shot, or ferociously going after Boudreau to stand up for his team. He looks at Matt and feels the same passion he feels for his game, and it is a good feeling.

For a second he’s not sure what to do with that, but then it hits him; he’ll do what Patrick Roy does, because he is Patrick Roy. He is not some scared, shy suitor who doesn’t know how to respond to a hockey player who looks at him like that. For the first time in months, the whole world actually makes sense.

He grins, and Matt looks surprised. “You know, I make a mistake with you,” Patrick says.

Warily, Matt replies, “Yeah? How so?”

“First of all I lie to you. You call me on that and you were right to do that. I pretend I do it for your own good, but really I just run away from my own feelings because I did not like them. They scare me. You just . . . I get overwhelm, and I run away.”

Matt looks down. “Well, I did come on pretty strong. I can see how having some idiot follow you everywhere, mooning over you, would be a little overwhelming, especially when you told him to knock it off and he didn’t.”

“Nah,” Patrick says. “I don’t think I was afraid of your feelings. I was just afraid of my own. I handle it like a coward. I’m sorry.”

Matt looks like he’s trying not to smile, but Patrick can tell he’s gratified. “So what are you saying?”

“That I have not stop thinking about you. Hell, I think about you more than ever. I am not the bigger man here, not by a long shot. I want you. Damn the rules, when did I care about rules? I was only ever a saint in the net, not in bed. And I—don’t want some Chad step in and take you. I watch you with someone else and it just—it just about break me,” he says with a sudden rawness.

Matt just looks at him for a long time, his expression not giving anything away. Patrick thinks he still wants it, but he’s been burned once now. Matt Duchene is one of the smartest people he’s ever met, and smart people learn from their mistakes. He hopes to God he is the mistake Matty will never learn from. He hopes there is still a slim chance.

“I don’t deserve it, but I ask you for a second chance anyway,” Patrick says. He knows it is fast, and maybe not the right time, but above all he does not want to risk another man stepping in. He can’t stand the thought of Matt with someone else.

“I’m not in the right headspace for it right now,” Matt finally says. “I kind of just got out of a relationship, and at any rate I’d like to concentrate on doing what I can about my knee.”

“Yes,” Patrick says, sharply disappointed. “I see that. And we have playoffs to think about, too.” He feels odd. He’s been turned down, and it’s horrible, but at the same time an enormous tension has washed away. He feels free in a way he has never felt before. He let go the lies and discovered the truth weighs next to nothing at all, and damn the consequences. Someone ducks in and tells them the game is about to get going again. Patrick nods. He smiles at Matt. “Feel better soon, my elite center,” he says with a little smile.

Matt laughs. “Yeah. Go get ‘em.”

“We will do that, but then we would have done that anyway,” Patrick says with a wink. “We win games. It is what we do.”

Matt grins at him. “Patrick?” he calls out just as Patrick is almost out the door. The man half-turns, eyebrows raised. “Maybe when I’m in better shape, I’ll call you?”

Patrick grins.

They go on to win the game. It wasn’t easy, but for some reason, it felt easy.

 

 

oOoOoOo

_Apple trees, on the other hand, grow old without reproach. Let them live as long as they may, and contort themselves into whatever perversity of shape they please, and deck their withered limbs with a springtime gaudiness of pink blossoms, still they are respectable, even if they afford us only an apple or two in a season.  
 _ **Buds and Bird-voices,** by Nathaniel Hawthorne_ _

The loss is hard, hard, hard. Any loss is hard, but this one tastes like acid. After the incredible season they had, it is difficult to accept an exit like this. Gabe is nearly speechless. Factor can barely handle it, he’s almost in tears. Matt curses himself; if he’d been 100%, it wouldn’t have happened this way.

They do the walk of shame, talk to the television reporters, bare their souls for the cameras, then try to drown themselves in the showers, dress and get ready to head home.

It isn’t until the press has cleared out and the guys have started to leave, still staring blank stares, that Varly turns to Matt. “We will get it next year,” he says seriously.

Matt half smiles. “Yeah?”

The young Russian lets out a long, contented breath. “I have feeling. I know it will be this way. This was start, Dutchy. This was only start.”

Matt grins. Varly has come into his own this year, reading the ice with a frightening prescience and snatching pucks out of the air left and right, his mental toughness something even Matty envies; he is never shaken, never discouraged. Every goal that makes it past him is a forgotten goal. Every loss goes straight in the trash, and he is ready to go again.

Matt finds himself nodding. “Yeah. I’m ready to give it another shot,” he tells the goaltender. “Wanna hit Vegas?”

“I am there,” Varly agrees.

Several of them fly out to Vegas, ready to paint the town, eat some good food, do some golfing, and try to get their minds off the loss. Even Nate comes along, although he’s pretty damn limited in what he can do. He jokes that all he wants is lots of Circus Circus; he’s going to win every fucking stuffed animal there is.

They go out carousing the first night, starting at Minus5, where they all feel at home, then dancing at Moon, and eventually ending up at Frankie’s at something like two or three in the morning.

Gabe has women hanging all over him, Nate is drinking a virgin pina colada, and all the liquor has completely obliterated Varlamov’s handle of the English language. “I need—” he tells Matt at one point, then pauses, looking confused. “Need, Matt. Need thing. Prisposobleniye.”

“Another drink?”

“Shit. Shit. No.” Varly sort of points around the room.

“A girl?”

“No. Place, Matt. _Place._ Need to go.” Varly is getting a desperate look in his eye.

“Bathroom?” Matt guesses. At the guy’s emphatic nod, Matt says, “You need to use the head?” he looks around. “I think it’s back there.”

“Bal'shoye spaseeba,” Varly grunts, then pushes Matt out of the booth to get past him. Matt watches him go, laughing. He watches Gabe try to teach Nate how to pick up girls. He’s incredibly shy and giggly and awkward, but they seem to like him okay anyhow. Matt grins. The kid is going to have a hell of a future, and Matt’s excited for him, for all the firsts he’s having now and will have down the road.

After watching the guys dancing (horribly) for a while, Matt starts to feel lonely. He digs out his cell phone and looks at it for a long moment before dialing. “Did I wake you?” he asks teasingly when Patrick finally answers.

“Ha, no, I was skydiving and couldn’t reach my phone because the parachute was in my way. Yes, you wake me. What time you call this?”

 _Booty call time,_ Matt thinks with a laugh. “So. Uh. Are you up for a trip to Vegas?”

“I think you should bond with your teammates,” Patrick says after a long moment.

“I’d rather bond with my partner,” Matt tells him slyly. “Come on. I miss you. We can eat too much and play golf and maybe, if you’re up for it, fuck like rabbits. Or not. I can wait on that,” he adds hastily.

There is a long silence. “You have too much to drink?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be sober by the time you get here.”

“Maybe you change your mind,” Patrick says cautiously.

“I won’t change my mind. When I know what I want I go after it hard. And I want you.”

Again, Patrick is quiet awhile. “You sure this is not a rebound thing from Chad?”

“Chad was the rebound thing,” Matt confesses. “Which is why it didn’t work. For some inexplicable reason he took offense when I called your name out while we were having sex.” He winces at the memory and waits for Patrick to be smug about it.

“I . . .” But apparently for the first time since Matt met him, Patrick Roy is at a loss for words.

Matt bites his lip. What if he pushed too hard again? He tries to backpedal. “I mean, it was just an idea,” he says in a dull voice. “Just thought you might be stuck in your head about things too, and could use a break. If you don’t want to, I’ll just—”

“I will look into a ticket and let you know.”

“You—what?” Matt wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“I will look into the price of a plane ticket. No promises. Okay?” Patrick sounds tired, not just woken-up-at-three-am tired, but tired of the stupid dance they’ve been doing.

“Yeah. Hey, no pressure. Whatever you decide,” Matt says, playing it cool when he feels distinctly uncool. He’s feeling drunk and lonely and worried that Patrick won’t do it, that he just blew his last chance by being Matt Duchene and screaming in at jet speed instead of acting casual. “Just, uh, let me know,” he says. “We’re staying at the Palms Casino.” He tries to think of something else to say, some way to sweeten the deal. He concludes he doesn’t really have anything more to offer. “Yeah. So . . . talk to you later?”

Patrick responds with a snore.

Matt decides that’s probably his answer and hangs up. Oh, well, at least he can say he gave it a shot.

Only the next afternoon he wakes up to someone pounding on his door, and stumbles out of bed and answers it to find Patrick standing there, looking sharp, like he’s going to a fucking interview or something. He’s even wearing a tie and aftershave and everything. “Finally,” the man says. “I been knocking fifteen minute and you don’t even pick up your cell!”

“I was in a hangover coma,” Matt replies, aware that his breath is one toxic cloud of bourbon and a thousand other delights. He needs a shave, too, and at one point his t-shirt got caught in a cab door and they were all too drunk to figure out how to open it, so in the end they just pulled really hard and now a chunk of it’s missing. Also, Varly spilled salsa on him, so he’s got stains going for him, as well. He looks down at himself, then up at Patrick and his outfit.

Patrick nervously rubs his hands together and that just about sends Matt over the edge.

“So, Mr. Roy, why don’t you tell us why you think you’d be a good fit with our organization?” Roy blinks in surprise and Matty nearly collapses laughing. He has to drag himself over to a chair to sink into as he sputters with laughter, trying to get himself together.

“What the hell you drink last night, radiator fluid? It seem to kill off most your brain cells,” Patrick observes. He shuts the door behind him and follows Matt, looking a little disgusted.

Matt laughs until his belly is tired. “It’s just that I look like something that would make a homeless dude walk on the other side of the street to get away from the smell, and you look like you’re here for a corporate interview.”

“Ah.” Patrick sits down in one of the chairs across from Matt. “Well, if you had told me the dress code was ‘shit that would embarrass everyone around you,’ I’m sure I could have found something more appropriate.”

Matt smiles at Patrick with sleepy eyes. “I didn’t bother getting gussied up because I didn’t think you’d come,” he yawns.

Patrick half smiles. “Me, I went by the notion that you dress for the job you want.”

“Huh, so I should be naked with maybe a saddle?”

Patrick looks shocked for a moment, but then he starts laughing. Laughing and laughing, and Matty likes it a lot. He isn’t sure when he last heard Patrick like that, and certainly not from anything he said. It feels good and breaks the tension.

Finally, Matt sits up and stretches. “So. You’re here.” He bites his lip. He promised himself he’d be less aggressive and let Patrick make the decisions as he felt comfortable. “What’s next?”

Patrick shrugs.

Well, that’s useful. “Then I’m gonna take a shower to wake up,” Matt says, struggling to his feet.

“Then I will have a coffee waiting for you.”

Matt nods. He looks at the man a long time. “And then?” he asks quietly, hopefully.

Patrick smiles. “Then I take you to a nice dinner.”

Matt smiles back at him. “Sounds good.”

“And _then_ I take you back here and fuck you so hard you maybe can’t walk, yet alone play hockey anymore,” the man says matter-of-factly.

Matt is startled into laughter. He shakes his head, red-faced, but can’t stop grinning. “Sounds even better,” he teases.

“Then hurry up and go get clean, for a given value of clean,” Patrick tells him.

Matt smartly salutes, then straggles off to the bathroom, feeling giddy.

Dinner is nice. Well, that’s kind of an understatement; the food is fantastic. Matt has a rack of lamb so fresh he might have chased it down himself, in a red wine sauce so rich and juicy his mouth prickles for it every time he puts his fork down. Patrick opted for something lighter—some kind of trout with an herb salad, but it’s also delicious, as Matt discovers when he steals first a forkful, then another two or three forkfuls. Patrick sits there, grinning like the cat that ate the canary as he watches Matt polish off his dinner.

“I have good taste, right?” Patrick asks, winking.

Matt can’t help but smile.

The conversation is good and the wine is better, and Matt thinks the date is an unqualified success. They barely even talk about hockey—mostly just fishing and travel and food. At one point Patrick even puts his hand on Matt’s knee under the table, and Matt’s almost instantly hard.

For dessert they try to find something that isn’t too heavy, and end up with a variety of fruits swirled in dark chocolate. It’s rich and smooth and when Matt bites into the cherries they pop in his mouth, filling it with tart juice.

Roy feeds one to him, pressing the fruit to his mouth. Dutchy’s lips part only too eagerly and his eyes fall shut. He makes sure to sneak a taste of Patrick’s fingertip and enjoys the way the man chuckles at this. He likes this. Having Patrick hand-feed him kindles a spark of lust deep in his gut, and he knows he’s looking at the man all goofy again, all besotted and stupid.

For once, Patrick doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, Patrick seems to like it. He’s sitting tall and straight and looking smug. “You like that?” he says.

Matt flushes and nods, not trusting himself to say anything.

“That is good.” He picks out a strawberry, swirls it in chocolate, and holds it up. Matt leans forward and takes it from Patrick’s fingers with his mouth, trying to do it in a sexy fashion. He’s pretty sure he’s completely failing, especially since he manages to miss and get some chocolate on his face. Patrick just grins a silly grin and uses his thumb to clean it off. “You ready to go back to the hotel?”

Matt squirms in his seat. He was ready ten minutes ago. Right now he’s beyond primed; he’d rather crawl under the table and suck Patrick off right there in the restaurant. “Yesplease,” he blurts, and Patrick laughs.

By the time they arrive back at the hotel, it seems like Patrick has stopped running from things and is practically pretending the whole thing was his idea. Far from flinching from Matt’s attention, he’s the one initiating, even slipping an arm around Matt’s waist as they walk through the lobby. And his grin says he is anything but wary of repercussions; he’s practically strutting like a peacock. It’s a wild switch from the usual, but Matt eats it up. Apparently the man has decided that if he’s going down, he’ll go out in flames, which is just like Patrick Roy.

Matt is so glad he booked a suite to himself, because they’re barely through the door before the man is on him, spinning him and kissing him roughly, holding his face in place with both hands, and Matt’s cock is definitely sitting up and taking notice. Patrick pushes him along, shoves him against the wall so he can press his full body against him.

Matt moans, arms circling Patrick’s waist, trying to pull him as close as possible. Finally he pulls away long enough to gasp, “Can I suck you?” Patrick blinks at him. “Please; I’ve been thinking about it for so long and I really want to do it,” Matt blurts.

Patrick’s eyes laugh at him, but he says, “I see. Well, I suppose if it mean that much to you . . .”

Matt laughs, kisses him hard, and drops to his knees, which, okay, don’t thank him for it, but he’s ignored the pain through worse. He discovers he’s actually whimpering as he works loose Patrick’s belt, rubbing his face against the man’s crotch in some kind of—he doesn’t know—some kind of primal, animalistic thing. He risks a glance up at the man, but Patrick’s eyes are closed, head thrown back, breath coming fast.

Matt works the man’s cock out, licks it, sucks it to full hardness, eyebrows drawn in concentration. Patrick is moaning softly, petting his head.

“That is good,” Patrick says. He strokes Matt’s cheek with his thumb and suddenly Matt is crazy-hard too, reaching down to squeeze his own cock through his pants.

Patrick slides his cock in and out of Matty’s mouth, one hand cupping Matt’s face. He mutters in French, that rough French-Canadian that is so much more masculine than regular French, so much gruffer and sexier to Matt’s ears.

Matt licks up and down, feeling the weight of Patrick against his tongue, feeling intimidated and exhilarated by the thick cock filling his mouth. He rubs his face against it, pressing kisses up and down the shaft, sucking the man’s balls.

Finally Patrick breathlessly pushes him back. “Come on, that is enough.”

“Why?” Matt asks blankly.

Patrick’s smile is full of swagger, that wicked confidence that only Patrick Roy has. “Because it is my turn,” he growls.

Eyes wide, Matt is on his feet in an instant and finds himself being summarily undressed and shoved in the direction of the bed. Patrick is not gentle, but then Matt doesn’t want gentle, all he wants is _now._

In moments Patrick has him naked and spread out on the bed, his whole body starting to flush under Roy’s critical gaze. Matty squirms, feeling incredibly self-conscious. “Uh . . .” he says softly.

Patrick looks surprised. “I am just decide where to start,” the man tells him in his lordly way that makes Matt smile. It’s okay if Patrick wants to be in control of this.

Matt crosses his hands behind his head and gives the man a cocky grin. “Whatever you say.”

Patrick’s eyes narrow. “Sometime you are too sassy for your own good,” he mumbles. “Roll over. Up on your knees.”

Matt blinks but obeys, slowly. Patrick splays his hands against Matt’s shoulders and drags them down, sliding all the way down Matt’s body to grasp his butt, squeezing it. “Yes, this is a pretty thing I have wanted for a long time,” Patrick says with great satisfaction. As embarrassing as it is, Matt really gets off on it, having the man touching him there, cupping and squeezing and growling little contended noises, spreading his cheeks. Matt feels vulnerable in the most delicious way.

Then Patrick leans over and Matt only has an inkling when his hot breath caresses Matt’s skin, and before he can say anything, Patrick is kissing him, running a tongue right along his crack. Matt makes a surprised noise and buries his face in the sheets. His face is hot, his arms tense, his fingers curled into unmoving claws.

Patrick nuzzles him there, flicks a tongue against his entrance, slides the tip right inside, and Matt makes a drawn out noise of pleasure, of surrender. Patrick says something short and approving in French and then begins to roughly lick Matt to the point of madness.

Matt squirms and whimpers, unable to stay still, toes curling into the sheets. Patrick’s tongue is warm and wet, questing inside of him, making him feel more exposed than he’s ever felt in his life. His cock throbs, bobbing free, apparently thrilled even though it’s not getting any attention at all.

Matt is babbling now, begging Patrick for more, thrusting back against him, and Patrick eagerly obliges.

Finally the man pulls back and Matt risks looking over his shoulder, breath coming in audible hitches.

“You are okay?” the man asks.

Matt blinks and discovers there are tears clinging to his eyelashes. God, he was so into it he was almost _sobbing_. He laughs shakily. He feels strung-out, undone, but good. Really, incredibly, immeasurably good. “Yeah. I’m good. It’s just, uh. Don’t stop?”

Patrick grins at him. “Yeah. It is a bit much to feel so out of control,” he agrees dryly. “Be right back.”

Before Matt can protest Patrick disappears into the bathroom, but in moments he’s back with a condom and lubricant. Now he is very gentle, careful as he prepares Matt. “It’s good?” he asks several times.

“Yes,” Matt agrees. At first he isn’t so sure, but as he gets used to it he likes it more and more. His prick is stiff and his balls ache. “Please,” he tells Patrick again and again. “Come on, please.”

Patrick smiles and murmurs to him, how handsome he is, how fuckable, how Patrick will enjoy mounting him.

Matt is starting to squirm again, starting to lose control. Suddenly he remembers something he had memorized a couple of months ago, something he learned just after the phone sex, back when he hoped he’d have a chance to use it. “Ta voix sexy me fait bander comme un porc,” he says hoarsely, and Patrick stares at him. Slowly the man smiles.

“You learn a new trick for me,” he observes. “I like this.” He pushes Matt’s head back down, enters him, begins to fuck him.

It takes a few minutes before Matt can get used to this; Patrick is so big he’s left whimpering a little, teeth clenched. “Need you to touch me,” he begs.

Patrick takes mercy on him, reaches around and strokes him back to full hardness, and then there’s nothing left but the pleasure, rocking back, moaning. “That is right, yes,” Patrick mumbles in his ear. “Oh, yes. You are so good inside, Dutchy.”

Matt nearly comes at that, at being told he’s good. “Please. God. _Please,_ ” he tells Patrick. “I want—I need—”

Patrick begins to fuck him hard, hands digging into his thighs, slamming into him. Then he reaches down, digs a hand into Matty’s hair, clenches a fist there, pulls hard, pulls him back, and Matty is coming, spurting over the sheets, coming untouched, panting Patrick’s name.

Patrick reaches around and milks him, makes sure he has squeezed every last drop out, and then pulls out, fumbling to get the condom off. Matt rolls over, pushes both of Patrick’s hands away stubbornly. “No,” Matt insists. “It’s mine. I want to.” Patrick’s eyes laugh at this, but he groans helplessly as Matty tugs, his prick hot and slippery and then he’s coming too, wordlessly, teeth clenched tight.

Then they collapse together, sticky and hot and tangled in a heap. “Why I try to say no to this I will never know,” Patrick says, and Matt laughs.

After a little while, Matt gets up and goes to the bathroom to get a hand towel and run it under some hot water. When he gets back, Patrick is asleep and snoring, so he cleans the man up and takes a quick shower before coming back to bed. He knows they haven’t really solved anything and everything is still pretty up in the air, but when his head touches the pillow he’s asleep before he can worry about it.

The next morning the alarm on his cell wakes him with an insistent ring, and he finally sits up. “Patrick,” he says to the still somnolent body beside him. “I’m meeting the guys for golf. Are you getting up?” Patrick answers by pulling a pillow over his head. Matt is nonplussed, but has to laugh. “Will you be here for lunch when I get back?” Matt can hear the insecurity in his own voice and hates himself for it. Patrick only answers with a snore. There just isn’t much Matt can do.

It’s getting late—really late—so he gets up and hurries to dress. He’s in the shower when he hears his cell ring, and by the time he comes out there’s a message from Gabe that they’ll be there in a minute to pick him up.

Matt’s in a real rush at this point—he can’t find his wallet, he can’t find his room key, he needs to brush his teeth—finally he scampers over to Patrick’s side of the bed and says, “Hey, I’m going out, okay?” he gives the man a little shake. He kisses the top of Patrick’s head hopelessly. “I’ll see you later.”

He’s literally half out the door when Patrick sits up blearily. “Wait a second, what is this? What the hell you dressed as?” he adds, squinting.

Exasperated, Matt turns. “I _told you_ , I have golf plans with the guys, and they’ll be here any second. Look, I’ll see you for lunch, if that’s okay.”

Patrick looks at him a moment, his hair in disarray, his scruffy face appealing, his chest bare—in fact, he slept in the nude. “You come back here and kiss me before you run off,” he demands like the petty tyrant he is.

Matt can’t help but laugh. “Patrick, _I’m late,_ ” he protests, but this doesn’t stop the man. He gets out of the bed and pads over, completely nude.

“Fine, if you will not give me my kiss, I will come and take it.” He comes over and sweeps Matt into his arms. Against his better judgment, Matt’s whole body likes this, his arms thrilling to circle the man’s nude shoulders. Patrick just holds him like that, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, while Matt just melts there making soft noises of pleasure and protest in equal measure.

“Knock-knock, your chauffer is—ack!”

Matt glances over his shoulder to see Nate MacKinnon with his hand on the door, which Matt had left open just a small crack, intending to leave any second. He can see Gabe over Nate’s shoulder, and Varly as well, and they are all staring, wide-eyed, at Matt and his naked coach-cum-lover.

Matt curses himself. He doesn’t know what to say. He always kind of assumed Pauly would be around when this happened, helping him to ease the team into this. He also assumed Patrick would be wearing pants, of course.

“Oh. Hey,” he says, mouth dry. Gabe raises his eyebrows. He looks like he’s about to start laughing.

Patrick draws himself up and manages to look like he has control of things. “I deeply apologize,” he says, “for Matt’s trouser.” Everyone stares at him. “You will have to excuse him. I am afraid he must have suffer some sort of head injury that damage his fashion sense.”

“I’m going _golfing,_ ” Matt protests without thinking. “They’re _supposed_ to look that way.”

Gabe grins. “Nothing on earth should look that way, and certainly not pants.” He turns to Patrick. “It’s okay. We understand; you couldn’t make him change. You’re certainly not the coach in the off season.” Matt hears the double-meaning and feels better about things.

Patrick nods. “Then I am going to put some clothes on myself, and then go and have breakfast. Maybe two breakfasts. It is the off season, after all. Have fun with your golf.” He struts away, unashamed, and shuts himself in the bathroom.

The rest of the guys all look at each other. Matt can’t guess what they’re thinking. He shifts uncomfortably in the face of their stare.

“What is wrong with pants?” Varly finally asks, pointing. “I like them very much.”

Gabe gives him a deeply apprehensive glance. “Okay, in addition to training this year, you all are taking a course in Gabe Landeskog’s Fashion 101, because I am _not_ being seen with you people if that’s how you’re going to dress in public.” He turns and marches off down the hallway, leading the way.

Matt hurries to lock up behind him and follow. “But it’s just _golfing_ , Gabe. You’re supposed to dress this way.”

“You are committing crimes against nature, wearing those pants,” Gabe grumbles, and Nate giggles. The tension has successfully been broken, and Matt’s deeply grateful.

“First round, me and Varly against you and Nate,” Matt suggests. “Winner gets to dress the loser for a week.”

Gabe looks alarmed at this, but reconsiders as he imagines winning. “You’re on.”

“I thought Coach would have better taste,” Nate comments.

“Nate,” Gabe says in a warning tone.

“But those pants are _awful_. People are going to _see_ me with a guy wearing those pants!” He gives Gabe a look of pleading. “I don’t care if they’re sleeping together,” he says in his soft, lispy voice, “But _some_ things are _not okay._ ”

Matt laughs a little, his face hot.

“Sorry, rookie. You’ll have to learn to live with Matt’s pants.” Gabe shrugs and lets out a long breath. “Anyway, they’re both grown men. They’ll make their own decisions, fashion and otherwise. We mind our own business—” he grins at Matt and prompts, “and what is that business?”

Matt blinks at him, and then smiles. “Winning,” he says. “Winning is our business.”

“Good answer. Next year,” Gabe says. “All the way to the Cup.”

Matt laughs giddily. He knows it isn’t over yet; there will be plenty of challenges for him and Patrick in the future. But today turned out okay, and that’s all he could really ask for. Tomorrow he’ll deal with when it comes. In so many ways, he has a long way to go. But hell, he’s coming off a gold medal win and he’ll have Patrick at his side. Someday he’ll hoist the Cup, but for today he’s already won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:
> 
> “Mais je me sens coupable.” (I am guilty. )
> 
> “p'tit Christ,” and “mange de la marde,” (little bastard and eat shit)
> 
> c’est possible (It’s possible.)
> 
> Il est dans l'amour. (He is in love.)
> 
> “Hestie de câlisse de tabarnac,” (Strong expression of anger/disgust, basically used as a sort of “fucking shit;” most Quebecoise forms of hard swearing incorporate the Catholic religion and as such are blasphemies, which are, after all, one of the more satisfying ways to curse.)
> 
> “diva au masculine” (Pretty much just what it sounds like. A man diva, a male diva.)
> 
> C’est terrible! (It’s terrible!) Quelle difficulté! (What a difficulty!) Pauvre de moi (Poor me!)
> 
> "Ta voix sexy me fait bander comme un porc." ("Your sexy voice gives me a hard-on.")
> 
> https://38.media.tumblr.com/dc96e65309daf6d52f574b930be21cab/tumblr_n587x3QwAZ1r063k2o1_r1_500.png Matt’s crazy pants.

**Author's Note:**

> French:
> 
> "être tiguidou," ( _It's all good or all is well. _)__
> 
> “Baise-moué l’ail,” ( _Kiss my garlic, with garlic being a euphemism, of course._ )
> 
> “Je te désire. Je te desire. Je veux te lécher des hanches jusqu’aux pieds.” ( _"I want you. I want you. I want to lick you from your hips to your toes."_ )
> 
> "T’as des miches bien fermes et musclées." ( _"You have nice strong buttocks."_ )
> 
> “Je suis désolé. Je suis désolé. Tu es beau et je suis désolé.” ( _I am sorry. I am sorry. You are beautiful, and I am sorry._ )


End file.
